


Sleeping Dragons

by Felis Draconis (opposablethumbs)



Series: Family history [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU Canon-era, F/M, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/Felis%20Draconis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The present is only as important as what came before and what will come after. Understanding the secrets of the Pendragon family history may be the only way to save Arthur, and Albion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thursday_Next](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday_Next/gifts).



> So, here's the thing. I wrote this two years ago. I began posting it. Then for long and convoluted reasons, I never finished.
> 
> Now I am.
> 
> The original scope was for this to be a three story arc. That will almost certainly not happen. However, this part can stand alone and, for that reason, I decided it was worth resurrecting it.
> 
> The original run thanked Thursday_Next for her support on this project, and for her sterling work as a beta. Its end comes with the same thanks, only with additional thanks for being a great friend.
> 
> Along the way, there will be some violence, romance, peril and even death - although I stress no main character death. Any feedback is appreciated, and I hope you enjoy the end of the story.

The caves beneath castle Camelot had been a meeting place of the ancient sect of the Dragonlords for time uncounted. Despite being many scores of feet underground and shielded from the sky by natural rock and man-made tower, the stones themselves shone with an echo of light they had never seen. The tinkle of dripping water ever beat there, the living heart of the earth.

“There must be some mistake.” The man Ulfred stared up into the great, grand face of the dragon Kilgharrah. Despite the disparity in height, the two were equals; brothers. Ulfred was the Pen-y-ddraig, the family title held by the hereditary leader of the Dragonlords, and Kilgharrah - despite his relative youth - was the wisest of the Council of the Six.

“There is no mistake,” replied Kilgharrah sadly. “The child is destined to bring destruction upon the dragons.”

“But he is just a babe!”

“Who will one day grow into a man.” Kilgharrah sighed. “I know this is hard for you, Ulfred.”

Ulfred gripped his staff more tightly. “What must be done?”

“The boy can never be allowed to come into his inheritance. His blood must be purged of both fire and water before his gifts can manifest.”

“You would have me do this to a child?” Ulfred whispered.

“To avoid fate is no easy thing. It requires sacrifices. What will come to pass if he is allowed to discover his magic, or to inherit the blood-bond of the Dragonlords, will be far worse.”

Ulfred’s throat convulsed. He tried to swallow the constriction away, to keep the pain from his voice. “But he is my...”

“What he is cannot be permitted.”

Ulfred nodded, his eyes misted with unshed tears. The dragon ruffled his leathery wings and took to the air, sailing into the space beyond human reach. They both knew the ceremony and what it would entail; that not all survived. It had not been performed for three generations, in times past being used as a punishment for Dragonlords who abused their powers in the most terrible ways. Those who were put through it had their ability to control the dragons severed. They were called ‘The Broken’, an apt term, for many of them went mad through loss. It would not be so hard if it was done before those gifts were realised, but the knowledge did little to ease Ulfred’s mind. Instead, his unfinished protest echoed there: 

_But he is my **flesh**._

_He is my **son**._

_He is my **Uther**._

**** 

 

The smell of churned mud, blood and defeat cloyed in the air. Arthur’s armour felt heavier than it ever had. His muscles screamed with fatigue, but the battle was not yet done. When it was, he could rest. He would rest as so many of his knights were already.

The blow that felled him came from behind, the blunt force of a staff between the shoulders. He dropped to his knees and forward onto his hands, unable to breathe. A pair of gore-stained boots entered his watery vision and kicked away his sword. He looked up helplessly into the face of an aging druid. Had it truly come to this? Had his rule been so unjust that even the peaceful should rise against him?

_“Arthur!”_

It was Merlin’s voice, hoarse and haggard, straining over the sounds of battle. Arthur had almost been relieved when they had been swept apart some time before, grateful to think that at least one of his companions might escape the sheer might of Morgana’s army. He should have known better, he should have realised that Merlin would never flee and that on this ragged plain of Cymrin, at this last of last moments, fate would find them reunited. 

Arthur turned his head to see his manservant, a man who barely knew one end of a sword from the other, barrelling towards them across the torn ground. Merlin, with his crooked smile, those stupid ears and those eyes - by God, those eyes. A deep swell of anger rose in Arthur. He had lost too much today, seen too many people he thought of as brothers and friends die to lose anyone else. Not now. Not one more. Not _Merlin_.

A red haze filled his mind. The air seemed to howl around him. 

“This is a thing past its time.” bellowed the druid, his staff crackling with blue sparks. “You cannot stop me, Emrys. The king must die!”

“Then damn me,” Arthur groaned. “And damn you.”

Lightning rent the sky. The stench of scorched air filled Arthur’s nose; the sound of thunder; his heartbeat. “Damn all of you!” he cried. The air burned in his lungs.

“Arthur!”

An unseen force hurled him backwards. A pillar of flame shot up from where the assailant had towered over him.

The ground was hard but distant against Arthur’s back. The heavens above him seemed to boil. A face, that ridiculous face, swam into view. Merlin was safe. Arthur felt hands on him, fluttering above his chest, stroking his hair with trembling fingers.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. There were tears in his eyes.

“Go,” Arthur croaked. “The battle is lost.”

“No, Arthur,” sobbed Merlin. “It wasn’t... it wasn’t supposed to end like this.”

Arthur closed his eyes.

“Arthur,” Merlin cried plaintively. “Arthur. Arthur!”

****

“Uther!” 

The ashy-blonde haired boy of some fifteen summers ignored the summons.

“Uther! Come here now,” Ulfred yelled.

“ _Coming_ , father,” Uther shouted. He punched one of his friends - Balaenor, son of the Dragonlord Ythrcor - in the arm with good humour and smiled at the sorcerer-girl Nimueh in a way that made Ulfred’s heart sink even lower. Uther ran to his father’s side. “Hello,” he said.

Ulfred did not greet his son. It wasn’t his intention to be cruel, but today was a day long prepared for. He had thought that if he just performed his duty and no further to the boy, it would be easier. He was wrong, of course. Uther was his heart, his soul, the very purpose of his life. He set off from the playing field at a fierce pace. 

“Where are we going?” Uther asked breathily, trotting along behind him.

“To the lake,” Ulfred replied gruffly.

“Why?”

Ulfred’s hands clenched, his nails biting the flesh of his palms. “You will see,” he said.

The lake was a place of ceremony. Its clear waters sprang in the folds of Nefoedd Giât, the tallest mountain in all six kingdoms and the breeding ground of the great dragons. The water was so still that the white-tipped peak was mirrored within it. Night was drawing in by the time Ulfred and Uther reached it. In the even-light, the twinkle of many torches floated like fireflies in the hands of robed figures. Every one shone in Uther’s wide, innocent eyes. The torches guttered at the leathery flap of wings from above. With a grace belying his great size, Kilgharrah settled on the shore Uther frowned and set off at a trot to keep up with him.

“It is time,” the dragon said.

“He’s still young, Kilgharrah,” Ulfred protested. His son turned and looked up at him. “And my family has always come late into their gifts. Could we not wait...”

“We have waited longer than is wise already,” Kilgharrah interrupted.

“Father, what is happening?” Uther asked quietly.

Ulfred looked away, into the huge, noble face of the dragon. “I will perform the ceremony,” he stated.

The dragon shook its head. “You do not need to do that, my friend,” he said.

“I do,” Ulfred corrected. “It is my duty, both as Pen-y-ddraig and as his father.”

Kilgharrah bowed his head.

Ulfred led his son to one side. For his age, Uther was small - as Ulfred had been himself until his sixteenth year and had then sprouted like a beanstalk in spring. He knelt before his son. He felt Uther shivering in the cooling night air.

“Do not be afraid,” Ulfred whispered. “A man must never be afraid of his destiny.”

Uther nodded shakily. It was one of the first lessons Ulfred had taught his son: to stand straight, to stare fate in the eye and to never shed a tear, for no man’s death deserved mourning. Death was just a gateway, he told him; a new beginning in the wisdom of the old religion to which they held. He took his son’s hand and pressed a bottle into his palm.

“Take this,” he said quietly. “It will make this easier.”

Uther held the vial up to look at it. Hurriedly, Ulfred concealed it, pushing it back against Uther’s chest. “It is not part of the ceremony,” he whispered conspiratorially. Indeed, it was not. Ulfred knew he was breaking the ancient rites by giving his son this thing, risking much more than just his own life by the deception. He gathered Uther into his arms, embracing him with all the warmth he had withheld for so long. “Drink it now,” he whispered in his ear, shielding Uther with his own body. He heard Uther swallow obediently.

He guided Uther back to the clearing, to the waiting crowd of Dragonlords and into the presence of the great dragon. “You must trust me,” he said to his son. Uther nodded. Ulfred walked out into the lake with Uther beside him. He took Uther by the shoulders.

The assembled Dragonlords began to chant, their slow deep voices filling the air like the deep, distant rumble of thunder. Uther’s eyes were wide with fear as Ulfred lowered him beneath the water. Even once he was submerged, his eyes remained open; staring, terrified, trusting. Small bubbles escaped his mouth and nose. Almost noiselessly, the great dragon took flight. He wheeled in a tight circle around the edge of the lake and then flew directly towards Ulfred. As he grew close, Kilgharrah opened his mouth and a tongue of flame shot forth. Where it reached the water, there was a hiss of steam. It broke around Ulfred, engulfing him in fire. The flames danced on the water. 

“ _Om narum kal sinad. Mas kemlet con suigas. E fumiore, e dŵr._ ” Ulfred intoned. He saw Uther’s eyes close. The fire died. The chanting of the others fell silent. Kilgharrah’s flying form was silhouetted against the moon.

He pulled Uther from the water, the limp body heavy in his arms. The Dragonlords drew back as he laid his son’s motionless form on the beach.

Kilgharrah landed beside him. “It is done?” he asked.

“He is... dead,” Ulfred replied, his voice tight and hollow.

“Yes,” agreed Kilgharrah simply.

Ulfred stood. “I wish,” he said, “I wish to be alone to stand vigil over my son. Until his soul passes beyond the veil at the turn of midnight.”

Silently, the other Dragonlords withdrew. Kilgharrah hesitated. “This was not your doing, Ulfred,” he said quietly.

“I gave him life,” Ulfred contradicted.

“The prophesy did not reveal itself until after his birth.” Kilgharrah lowered his head, almost level with Uther’s body. His nostrils flared as if he was smelling him. “I do not ask you to do anything I would not do myself.”

“I had to sacrifice my own kin to save your kind,” Ulfred replied.

“We creatures of magic are all kin,” Kilgharrah said.

“Leave me with my son,” Ulfred growled.

Kilgharrah straightened. “As you wish,” he said. He wheeled and took to flight over the water that once more stood like a looking glass, soaring towards the mountain with a sound like a plaintive song.

****

“Set him down here.” Gaius hurriedly cleared his equipment from a table in the medical tent set back from the battle. His old bones creaked as he helped them settle Arthur onto the bench. In truth, he probably should not have made this arduous journey at his age but he felt he had had to be here. Not that he could do a tenth of what he wished: there were so many dead and dying that he could not have saved them if he tried. But this, this was the king. Merlin trailed in to the tent behind the bedraggled knights that had born Arthur between them. Gaius’s heavy heart lifted to see the man he had helped to raise.

“What happened to him?” Gaius asked. He raised Arthur’s shoulder; there were no piercing injuries on the body of the unconscious king.

Merlin was white as a sheet, his muddy cheeks streaked with tears. He shook his head dumbly.

“There was a light in the sky,” one of the knights said in an awed whisper. “A fire, like nothing I have ever seen.”

“The enemy is in a rout. They say that it was as if the Gods themselves turned on them,” another provided.

Gaius raised an eyebrow and snuck a look at Merlin. A tiny shake of Merlin’s head took him by surprise.

“You,” Gaius said, pointing at a young squire with terrified eyes. “Bring me fresh water. The rest of you should go out and look for survivors. Merlin, assist me here.”

The tent cleared of all but Gaius and Merlin.

“It wasn’t me!” The words burst from Merlin’s lips almost as soon as the tent-flap was lowered. “There was magic, but it wasn’t mine. It was... uncontrolled power. Something burned the enemy away like dry tinder. Arthur was... he... he was at the centre of it. Everything else within yards around him was turned to ash but he _survived_.”

Gaius pursed his lips. He pulled by Arthur’s eye lids; one in turn. The eyes beneath flickered as if the king was in a dream. “It couldn’t be,” he whispered.

Merlin stood just behind his shoulder. His fingers plucked at the sleeve of Gaius’s robe, like a worried child twisting its mother’s skirt. Merlin was a grown man, with more heaped on his shoulders than perhaps anyone else in all of creation, but, still, he deferred to Gaius with all the naive wonder of an innocent. “It couldn’t be what?” he asked.

Gaius turned to look at him; Merlin’s features twisted with worry. Gaius had long since ceased to wonder at how Merlin had accepted his destiny and the unreserved way he would put Arthur’s life before his own. He had lived enough years to know love when he saw it.

“When I was an acolyte,” he explained, “before Uther took Camelot and outlawed magic, there were three ways in which young sorcerers were identified. For some, the gift came at birth; it required little training for them to harness it. Such mages were rare and powerful. Although none had your intrinsic mastery of the elements, they often looked down upon the rest, the likes of me: those who had the gift but had to work to draw it out.”

“You said there were _three_ types of sorcerer,” Merlin said.

“Yes,” Gaius agreed. “There were a few in our number who were called ‘latent mages’. They had the gift but showed no sign of it until something happened to release it. For some, the onset of adulthood brought the change, for others a traumatic event could be the catalyst.”

“But what has this to do with...” Merlin broke off thoughtfully.

“Latent mages did not master the elements, the elements mastered them,” explained Gaius. “They were like the eye of the storm around which the fury of nature would rage. The shock of it could force them back inside their minds where only the high priestesses could reach them. They were brought into the school for their own protection and the protection of others. They had to be taught to control so as not to hurt either themselves or those around them. Few mastered even the most basic enchantments and yet they were perhaps the most dangerous among us.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you think _Arthur_ is a latent mage?”

“I would say that this battle constituted a traumatic event,” replied Gaius.

“We’ve fought in battles before and he’s never done...” Merlin waggled his finger at the unconscious Arthur, “this.”

“But you yourself said that this battle did not match any future you had seen, that even time itself didn’t know whether Arthur would survive it. It is possible that this is why. It would take great power to overcome fate itself.”

Merlin turned and looked at Arthur. He put a hand to his chest and watched it as it rose and fell.

“No,” he said, “it’s ridiculous. Arthur can’t have magic. It comes down through family lines: everyone knows that.”

“His half-sister has magic,” Gaius pointed out. “And little is known of Uther Pendragon before he came out of the west with an army at his back.”

“But Uther _hated_ magic.”

“Such hatred is often born from that which once was love.”

Merlin pursed his lips. Many names hung between them, the unquiet memories of Camelot’s past. “Someone would know if Uther came from magical origins. There must be _some_ record of his family.”

“The records of Uther’s heritage were sealed by his decree, never to be opened upon pain of death. He permitted no-one to see them, not even Geoffrey much to his disgust.”

“But Uther is dead,” Merlin countered. “If there is any chance that Arthur... is like me, we have to find out. To _help_ him.”

Gaius shook his head. “Not until the wounded have been cared for. Arthur is in no immediate danger, and he would not wish for his life to be put before that of his men.”

Slowly, Merlin nodded. He bent by his friend’s side and took his hand. “If you can hear me, Arthur, know that I will do everything I can to see you safe. And if you _do_ have magic...”

“If he _does_ have magic,” Gaius said, “Then he will only need you more from now on.”

****

Ulfred stood motionless beside the body of his son. He had been standing like this for so long, he no longer felt his legs; only his heavy heart dragging him down towards the ground. It was well past midnight, the moon was beginning to sink behind Nefoedd Giât. Still he did not move.

In the distance an owl screeched, its thin cry trailing off into nothing. As if in reply, Uther sat bolt upright with a sudden, ragged gasp.

Ulfred fell to his knees beside his son. Wordless relief flooded through him as he gathered the boy into his chest. Uther’s body was cold enough to be mistaken as a corpse, but this moment was the true reason why Ulfred had held his vigil. The potion he had given Uther just before submerging him was an old and powerful one: it suspended life, giving the appearance of death while trapping the soul within the mortal plane. It held almost as many risks as the ceremony, with some people going too far into the dark to ever return. But there had been no alternative; he had felt that in the flames. The fire on the water had been hotter than Ulfred had ever known, so fierce that they had nearly taken him too. It only confirmed what Ulfred suspected: that Kilgharrah would never have been sufficed by anything less than the boy’s death, so great was his fear that Uther was destined to bring the dragon’s to their end. He held his son’s shivering form; his bony frame and gangly limbs.

“F... father,” Uther said through chattering teeth.

“Uther, my boy,” Ulfred whispered soothingly.

“W... what happened.”

“I’m sorry Uther,” replied Ulfred, “I had no choice. You have had your bond to the dragons broken, the magic you were destined to inherit has been purged from you.”

Uther stared up at him, unblinking. His eyes were grey in the moonlight. “But I’m your son,” he said plaintively. “I was supposed to follow you as the Pen-y-ddraig. How can I do that without powers?”

Ulfred’s voice caught in his throat. “You... can’t,” he said at last. “But there was no other way. The dragons, they say you are to... that you have a terrible destiny.”

“Me?” Uther said, a strange light in his eyes. If Ulfred knew no better, he would almost call it pride.

“Kilgharrah believed... you were to be the downfall of the dragons and the end of our kind.”

“And you trusted him?”

“I had... no choice.”

“You _obeyed_ him.” There was scorn in his son’s voice. Ulfred looked into Uther’s face. Despite the youth-soft features, there was nothing more of the child in Uther’s steely gaze. It was a terrible moment, to see this transformation; a thing born before its time.

“I am a Dragonlord. It is my duty to protect them,” he justified. It sounded weak even to his own ears.

“And you would allow them to send me to my death?”

Ulfred broke contact with Uther’s eyes. “I allowed them to _think_ you dead. Even without your powers, they would have reason to fear. I did what I had to do to save you. To save all of you.”

“To save me for _what_?” Uther demanded. “I cannot return home, I will never inherit my rightful title. You have condemned me to a life of exile and anonymity.”

Ulfred could not find it in himself to contradict Uther. “I thought only of your _life_ , Uther,” he said. “You are the most precious thing to me. After your mother died...”

“After mother died,” Uther sneered. “All you ever do is pity yourself. You never truly loved me.” Uther scrambled to his feet. He staggered, still weak from the potion.

Ulfred reached for him. “All I ever _did_ was love you,” he promised.

Uther snatched himself away. “Liar,” he accused.

“You are my family.” Tears fell silently down Ulfred’s cheeks. “All I have left.”

“No, I’m not,” Uther replied. “Your family died here this night.” He began to walk towards the line of trees.

“Wait!” Ulfred called. Uther halted. “I brought some things for you: food, medicine, warm clothes.”

“I want nothing from you,” Uther spat over his shoulder. He fled into the night, melting in amongst the trees and swallowed by the shadows.

Ulfred ran into the forest. In the darkness, twigs clawed at his face and hair; cruel fingers. “Uther!” Ulfred cried into the gloom. He tried to follow but his limbs were like stone and his heart shattered and trembling like a bird’s. Uther had youth’s swift feet and keen eyes in his favour. Ulfred gasped as a tree root sent him sprawling, the ground rushing up to meet him with its hard embrace. Winded, all he could do was claw his fingers into the sodden ground. “My son,” he sobbed. “I will always love you.”

****

The field of battle was a terrible place, full of blank, staring eyes and the call of crows. For every man Gaius could save, another was lost. It was some small mercy that Leon, Gwaine and Percival had all been recovered from the plain. Gwaine was conscious but silent, his eyes were grey and weary. A sword had sliced through his leg at the back, hewing flesh and tendon and he had lost much blood. Only time would tell if he would walk true again. Leon was more gravely wounded. A long ragged line cut his face from lip to brow, his eye swollen closed so that Gaius could not tell if it was lost or not. An arrow pierced his flank and only one side of his chest moved up and down with his laboured breaths.

Despite the serious condition of the other knights, it was Percival that gave Gaius the greatest concern. He had not been badly injured: the blow of a sword pommel knocking out his front teeth and felling him. It was not his body that Gaius feared for, but his mind. The way he looked at Gwaine and Leon, Gaius had seen that hollow stare before. It was the guilt of the man left standing, the one who regretted not giving up his life for his comrades. He would have to be handled with the utmost care; many who were haunted in this way sought to atone for their perceived failure by throwing themselves into the way of harm.

Arthur himself still lay unconscious, as if in a dream. Indeed, that was what Gaius had told the heralds before they rode post for Camelot. He had inferred that the strains of the battle - of which was to be proclaimed a victory - had taxed Arthur’s body beyond its ability to cope. When his humours were renewed, Arthur would return. He was the once, the now and the future king, and the people should not fear.

Preparations were being made to move the survivors back to Camelot. Morgana’s forces may have been scattered but this was no place to linger. The final duty was to build a pyre for those that had died. One day, they would return and build a cairn on this site, so that the memory of this battle would never be forgotten. Until that time, the spirits of the fallen would haunt the place. They could be heard by the night, howling amid the wind. Gaius would be glad to see his own chambers, his small bed, and to be away from that dreadful sound.

“How is he?” Merlin had entered the tent whilst Gaius was consumed in his own thoughts. It was of Arthur he asked, but Gaius replied as a physician.

“Leon needs the resources I have back at the castle,” he said. “I have done as much as I can from here. Gwaine will heal better in familiar surroundings. Percival too.”

Merlin’s eyes cast down with shame. The meaning behind Gaius’s prognosis was not lost upon him. He had more than one friend in need of help and he should not forget that. Gaius put a hand to Merlin’s arm.

“Arthur’s condition remains unchanged,” he said softly. “He will take small amounts of water, laced with salts to preserve him. He is strong. He can last for a time like this.”

“Do you have any ideas yet on what will cure him?”

Gaius nodded thoughtfully. “Some,” he said. “Arthur’s problem is that his mind cannot reconcile the actions of his body. The fervour with which Uther bred his fear of magic into him will only make it harder.”

“But what can _I_ do?” Merlin asked.

“I believe that the high priestesses used to enter the mind of the latent mage by the use of an ancient ritual. I will need to consult my books.”

“But you think we can perform this ritual?”

“I think that if _anyone_ can perform it, then _you_ can.”

Slowly, Merlin nodded. “We will hold the vigil tonight and be ready to travel at first light.”

Gaius smiled wearily. “First light,” he said. “Of course.”

Concern drew Merlin’s eyebrows together. “Are _you_ alright?” he asked.

Gaius chuckled. “Oh, there is life in me yet Merlin, do not fear.”

Merlin smiled. It brought colour to his cheeks and vigour to his eyes. Gaius’s self-depreciating joke was worth it simply for that. Silently, Merlin crossed to Arthur’s side and sat on the floor by his makeshift cot. He leaned against it, gently stroking Arthur’s fringe from his brow. 

Gaius turned his back on them. Merlin was a creature of magic, but more than that; he was a man of love. How deeply that love went, Gaius didn’t think Merlin knew himself. He busied himself changing Leon’s dressings. The long, dark lashes of the man in his care fluttered as he worked. Slowly, Leon opened his uninjured eye. “Gaius...” he croaked through cracked lips.

Injured or no, Gwaine was first to his feet. His face held some of its old cheer. “Leon, my friend,” he greeted. 

Merlin joined them, a wide smile on his face. “How do you feel?” he said. Percival stood back at a distance, not quite looking at the assemblage, but neither looking directly away.

Leon licked his lip, his tongue tarrying over the torn flesh. “Like Gwaine... convinced me... to spend an entire... month... in the tavern.” His breath came with difficulty, breaking his speech into short gasps.

Gwaine snorted. He winced. “Once we get back to Camelot, I think we will have earned such a thing,” he promised.

Leon nodded slightly. He looked between Gaius, Gwaine and Merlin. “What... of the king?”

“Arthur is alive as well,” Merlin provided. “He... is asleep at the moment.”

“Is he... injured?”

“We are taking care of him,” Gaius interrupted before Merlin could reply. “He is resting. As should you be. As you _all_ should be,” he said pointedly to his patients.

Gwaine grumbled, but squeezed Leon’s shoulder fondly before hobbling back to his own cot. Percival’s head was bowed already but his shoulders slumped further at Gaius’s scolding and he slouched to the space set aside for him. Merlin took Leon’s hand. He smiled. Leon’s eye drifted closed again as he sank into sleep.

****

“Get up, boy!”

Uther felt the sharp prod of a sword-point just nicking at his side.

“I said, get up!”

He opened his eyes. It was daylight. He didn’t know how long he had slept. It was three days since he had left his father - no, Ulfred - by the side of the lake at the foot of Nefoedd Giât. In all that time, he had run, stopping only to drink from streams and pluck unripe fruit from tangled bushes that grew within the forest. He followed the movement of sun, moon and stars: east to west. Finally the forest of Acestir had thinned. The land beyond was grey, hard and barren and smelled of the sea. Uther had stumbled on, his body weakening with every step. At last, he must have collapsed, sleep catching him where he fell.

“Are you an idiot, boy?” The man who towered over Uther was dressed in so many furs he looked like a great bear. Behind him, a small band bristled with spears and axes.

Uther got to his feet, swaying. “I am...” _Uther, son of Ulfred, Pen-y-ddraig - the Lord of the Dragonlords, the head of their sect - fated to follow his father, destined to destroy the dragons._ “No-one,” he concluded. “I’m an orphan.”

The man scratched his scraggly beard. “An orphan,” he said. “I have a soft spot for orphans.”

“It could be a trap, Berrin,” one of the band-members said.

“A trap by _whom?”_ The man called Berrin asked. “And why? To steal our riches?”

A few of the other bandsmen laughed grimly.

“Nay,” Berrin replied. “It is naught but a lost manling. As once I was. As once _you_ were, Ganet.”

“Please... sirs...” Uther said with mustered subservience. “I am tired, and cold. Do you have any food you can spare, or furs I could borrow?”

“We have nothing to spare, boy,” Berrin said, but his tone was not unkindly. “We have little enough for ourselves and can only provide for our own. Unless you have... gold.”

Uther’s face fell. “I have no gold, sir,” he said.

Berrin sighed. His massive chest rose and fell like the swell of a wave. “Then I have only one option,” he said gravely.

Uther, despite all his obstinate bravery, trembled.

“You must become one of us. A grand family of orphans and forgotten people.” Berrin took one of the furs from his own shoulders and held it out. “Will you join us?”

Uther took the fur, still warm from the man’s body, and wrapped it around himself. It was musty; smelling of dirt and sweat but for all that, Uther drew it close. 

Berrin smiled. “What is your name, boy?” he asked. “Do you know what your family title was?”

Uther bit his lip. “My father was Penydr--- Pendragon,” he corrected. “I am Uther Pendragon.”

Berrin clapped Uther on the back. “Well then,” he said. “You are now Uther Pendragon, of the Gollwyd People.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present is only as important as what came before and what will come after. Understanding the secrets of the Pendragon family history may be the only way to save Arthur, and Albion.

The journey back to Camelot seemed to take far longer than the outbound trip. Gaius felt every jolt of the wagon’s wheels so deeply in his bones that he would have sworn they shook him to his very soul. Within the carriage, he was accompanied by Leon, who came in and out of consciousness as the ride continued, and Arthur, who lay as still and silent as a statue. Gwaine had been placed in the wagon behind; he had a beneficial effect on the other wounded. His ribald spirit, so full of life, was returning to him and being with the men seemed to do as much for him as it did for them. He had eased the passing of several friends with a soft song, or a bawdy joke that Mollith the Fair would be waiting for them beyond the veil.

Percival, on the other hand, was drawing further in upon himself with each day. For all his skills, Gaius had no potion or tincture that could salve the hurt of a mind in torment. The big man had insisted in riding point, to guard the ailing troop as it limped back to the castle. It was true that, in their depleted state, the armed forces of Camelot would make for easy prey to an unscrupulous enemy. Gaius did not think Morgana’s forces would rally so quickly as to be able to launch a second assault, but there were other powers out there - bandits, brigands, even other kingdoms who would not balk at taking advantage of their weakness. 

Gaius had sent Merlin with him, hoping that Merlin’s natural goodness might help in his healing. Plus, being stuck in an enclosed space with the young man starting guiltily between his friends was a fraction more than Gaius’s frayed nerves could stand. True enough it was that Merlin could probably have helped in their care but, for the moment, sorcery was still outlawed and Gaius would not have him taking the risk of using magic on either one. Leon’s wound remained clean and the swelling in his face was beginning to ease. Arthur’s condition could not be aided by any of the means _either_ of them currently had at their disposal, and only a safe return for all of them held any hope for treatment.

Finally the bumpy track through the forest and hills smoothed as the procession found the stone-clad road. Gaius peaked out of one of the wagon’s arrow slits and saw a thing of beauty: standing tall and proud, the elegant, slender towers of Camelot rose majestically towards the heavens. As the convoy rode through the gates, their progress was met with shouts of joy and as many wails of anguish. At last, they made it to the courtyard. The carriage which Gaius and his precious cargo occupied shuddered to a halt. The doors at the rear were opened. Bright light and familiar smells flooded the interior. The unmistakeable form of Percival was silhouetted against the glare.

“I will bear the king to his chambers,” he said gruffly, stepping inside the wagon and lifting Arthur gently into his arms, carrying him like a babe. He stepped out into the light and was replaced by two soldiers with a stretcher between them. They transferred the unconscious form of Leon to it. “You will take the greatest of care with him,” Gaius heard Percival growl. “Or you shall answer to _me_.”

Gaius moved shakily towards the rear of the carriage. His legs were weak from confinement and his mind sluggish from too little sleep. A strong arm grasped his; long, lean fingers offering their support. Merlin’s wide grin met Gaius as he stepped from the wagon.

“It’s good to be home” Gaius sighed.

“I didn’t know if I would see this place ever again,” Merlin replied.

Gaius smiled. “Ever is a very long time Merlin,” he replied.

Merlin nodded. “Not in this life, at least,” he admitted.

Gaius linked his arm through Merlin’s and allowed the younger man to assist him up the stairs and into the castle. His unsteadiness was in no way feigned, the trials of the last few weeks; mounted on the trials of the last few _years_ , left him feeling ancient beyond telling. Sleep, the physician’s greatest ally, would help greatly but Gaius knew he had many hours before he could clamber into his own bed. Leon’s chest wound, at the very least, would have to be sealed and an attempt made to salvage his lung. Gaius held out little hope that the procedure would be effective after so long, but he owed it to the brave knight, who clung so obstinately to life, to at least try. There were reasons that war was for young men: he barely had the strength left to shuffle down the corridors to his apothecary. 

With a sudden constriction in his chest, Gaius realised that perhaps it was because so many young men who fought in war did not get the opportunity to become old men like him.

****

“Ha! You fight well, youngling!” Berrin laughed as Uther parried his blow, countering it with a riposte of his own.

“I have had a good teacher,” Uther laughed, spinning away from another flash of Berrin’s sword. 

“I can hardly believe it is but a short year since you came to us, barely knowing one end of a sword from another.” He spread his arms wide. “And look how much you have changed.” It was true, in the last eighteen months Uther had grown nearly a full foot, his shoulders broadened and flesh firmed. He even sported the beginnings of a beard in the typical form of the Gollwyd people.

Taking advantage of Berrin’s prone position and his newfound size, Uther launched himself at the other man, knocking him to the ground. They wrestled for a moment, but the litheness of youth won out, Uther pinning his man to the ground.

“Call surrender,” he demanded.

“I surrender, you weasel,” Berrin laughed.

Uther pouted, clambering to his feet. Despite his irritation at Berrin’s taunt, he held out his hand to the other man 

“I am very proud of you,” Berrin said, taking Uther’s arm and drawing himself upright. “You fight bravely and without fear, seizing your opportunities where you see them. In fact...” Berrin’s brown eyes flickered from his. “In fact,” he said more quietly. “I have wondered if...”

“What, Berrin?” Uther pressed.

Berrin looked up. “I wondered if you would allow me to name you my heir. I’m too grizzled now to take myself a wife fairly but I would like to have... a son to follow me.”

“No,” Uther said hastily. Berrin’s eyes held the sadness that his face refused to show. “I... I mean,” Uther stammered. “That I would not wish to give up my name, the only thing that my father ever gave to me.” It was a lie, in all senses, but Berrin nodded slowly with understanding.

“Then will you consent to be my brother?” he asked. “Brothers need not share a name to be of the same blood.”

Uther looked Berrin up and down. He was a large man and as fierce as he could be friendly. He thought of his people first and would fight to protect them. “I would be honoured,” Uther said.

Berrin and his furs swallowed Uther in an embrace. He thumped Uther’s back merrily. “Then that is what we shall be.” Out of the corner of his eye, Uther saw the glint of steel. Pain suddenly blossomed between his brow and his scalp. Crimson drops fell onto his eyelashes. He jumped back from Berrin, his hand going to his head - it came away damp with blood. His mouth formed a silent question...

“We are bothers now,” Berrin said, wiping the tip of his thin dagger on his furs before sheathing it. “But never forget that _any_ man can do you harm if you give him the opportunity.” 

Uther’s eyebrows furrowed. It hurt, but with the pain came understanding. He nodded. 

Berrin clapped an arm around Uther’s shoulder. “Come,” he said, “we will boil some wine to treat the wound. It isn’t deep but, if you are lucky, it will scar and remind you of this day.”

“And perhaps one day I will give you a scar in return,” Uther said.

Berrin chuckled grimly. “Of that I have no doubt, my brother,” he replied.

****

“How is he?” Merlin asked, putting his hand to Leon’s head. It was warm but dry; no sign of shock or fever in it. His breathing, too, was easier. As Gaius had feared, the lung that had been pierced could not be recovered but at least it was no longer in danger of becoming infected. Leon would learn to live with shortened breath and, with time and training, it should provide little hindrance to his duties. His eye was still an unknown; depth perception was a fundamental necessity for a knight but until the wound over it began to heal, it would not be possible to tell if the eyeball was still in place, and longer still until it could be determined if it had been damaged by the blow that split the skin.

“He is stable,” Gaius said with a sigh. “I’ve done all I can for now.”

Merlin put his hand to Gaius’s shoulder. “You should rest.”

“I still need to search for details of the ritual I told you of.”

Merlin shook his head. “You are in no state to look for anything,” he said gently.

“Is that your _medical_ opinion?” Gaius asked sharply.

“Yes,” Merlin replied. “After all, you _have_ been training me for longer than I care to remember.”

Gaius huffed.

“Just tell me which books are most likely to hold the information we need. I will start looking and wake you in a few hours.”

“Or if you find anything before then.”

“Come, Gaius,” Merlin said with a smirk. “You know the law of Sod: it’s always the last book you come to.”

Gaius chuckled. “Of that, Merlin, I have no doubt.”

****

“But why?” Uther said angrily, slamming his goblet of wine down on the rough-hewn table set in Berrin’s tent.

Berrin’s brow darkened. “Because, Uther, it is not the way of our kind.”

“But you are already _like_ a Lord to them! It is _you_ who ensures there is enough food for the winter; that the women and children are safe. It would be a small step to name yourself their leader in title rather than just in deed.”

“The Gollwyd have never had a Lord. We fight for each other, not for glory. We pay tribute to the Old Gods, not to some fat man hiding in stone walls.”

“But...”

Berrin stormed to his feet, upending the table. “Damn it, Uther, I have said no!” he roared. “I will hear no more of this!”

Uther bowed with fake subservience. “As you wish, my _Lord_ brother,” he said, and removed himself from Berrin’s sight.

****

“Gaius.”

Gaius was dreaming. It was quite a pleasant dream about warm fires, plentiful wine and soft cushions.

“Gaius.”

Alice was with him, with her kind eyes; her gracious smile. Her knotted fingers were woven with his.

“Gaius.”

_‘Why can’t you just leave us alone, Merlin?’_ he grumbled to her. She laughed.

“Gaius!” Merlin hissed urgently.

Gaius flailed himself upright. “What!” he demanded.

Merlin blinked at him.

“I mean, how long have I been asleep?” he said more softly. 

Merlin grinned. “Not long,” he said. He pushed a book under Gaius’s nose, tapping excitedly at a page within it. “The Somnus,” he said. “Look. First book.”

They looked at each other.

“Sod’s law,” they said in unison.

“So what does it say? Is it a very complicated ceremony?” Gaius asked, squinting at the page, his eyes still fuzzy from sleep.

Merlin’s smile widened. “That’s the best bit. It’s easy! The only reason I can see that it was kept secret is the fear that it might be turned to evil in the wrong hands.”

“So what do you need?”

“The key to the whole thing is a kind of sleeping potion,” Merlin explained. “It allows the sorcerer to enter a similar kind of trance as the latent mage.”

“And there’s nothing more to it than that?”

“Well...” Merlin said, his cheeks colouring just a touch. “I have to... touch him. In order to remain in his mind, I have to stay in contact with him throughout.”

“I see,” said Gaius. “Well, that will be easier with him in his chambers than here.”

“How so?” asked Merlin.

“Well, the king’s bed is far larger than either of ours.” Gaius eased himself to his feet, ignoring the flustering of his companion. “Tell me what is needed for this sleeping potion,” he said. 

Merlin flustered a moment longer and then pulled himself together, referring to the text. “Well, the usual really. Valerian, comfrey, a pinch of accramin. And something I don’t know: Oarsweed.”

“Kelp,” Gaius provided. 

“As in the slimy stuff you get by the sea?”

“The very same,” Gaius said. 

“So do you have any?” Merlin pressed.

“Oarsweed’s primary use is to assist in cases of difficult labouring. Uther outlawed it after Arthur was born, blaming it for its role in Ygraine’s death.”

“But,” Merlin said, “Do you have any?”

A small, knowing look passed between them. “I keep a small supply,” Gaius admitted, “For emergencies.”

“Then we have everything we need to make the potion?”

Gaius nodded. “I should say so,” he agreed.

Merlin’s face was awash with joy and relief. A big, beaming smile broke through the tired lines around his mouth and eyes. “Then what are we waiting for?” he asked. “I have important sleeping to do!”

****

“We must move against them,” Uther said. Within the great hall that he and Berrin now held as their manor, a few voices raised in agreement.

“Peace, brother,” Berrin said, signalling for calm. “The Hibernian sea-men will not come this far inland.”

“Do you disbelieve the reports of your scouts?” Uther countered. “That three villages within our lands have been pillaged and set to the torch.”

“The Gollwyd are the lost people, the forgotten people. One does not stay lost if you start declaring war.”

Uther stood and turned his gaze on the assembled tribesmen. “You have all heard the word of Lord Berrin,” he said. “His concern is for his people, and rightly so. But where he would caution inaction, would have us remain here behind our walls while the villagers of these lands are put to the sword, I would say that we should ride out and face the Westernmen. We have arms, we have the might; all we must do is prove to the people that we can protect them. The king of these lands is weak: if we stand in his stead, they will flock to our banner. We will never be hungry again, we will never be cold again!” He unsheathed his sword and lifted it aloft. “Who will join me?!”

The men cheered. There was something in what Uther said, or perhaps just _how_ he said it that made these goat farmers and woodsmen want to fight with him. _For_ him.

Berrin got to his feet. “I never asked to be your Lord,” he roared over the cries of the men. “But I have taken that title which you gave me, and it is my voice that shall be heard here.”

Uther span on Berrin. “Then perhaps it is time that you stepped aside and allowed a bolder voice to speak for the people.”

Berrin laughed. “You would challenge me? A green boy?”

“I am no boy,” Uther said. “I have more than a score of summers behind me. And I would not see our people suffer for your cowardice.”

Berrin drew his sword, Uther’s was already in his hand. “I cannot ignore such an insult,” Berrin warned. “Not even from my brother.”

“Then prepare yourself,” Uther said. The men huddled back, clearing a space in the middle of the hall. Uther stepped into it.

Berrin unfastened the most cumbersome of his furs, allowing them to drop to the floor. Even without them he was still a big man; broad and solid. A patch of scarred flesh stood out palely on the leathery skin of one of his upper arms and shoulder. He had always claimed it had happened in a hunting accident. Now, by the flicker firelight, Uther questioned that. The wound was perfectly placed to be a jousting injury and Berrin’s stance was not that of an armed savage, it was the cautious positioning of a trained swordsman. Growing up within Camelot’s walls, Uther had seen his share of tourneys. They were one of the few state events that the insular sect of the Dragonlords allowed their families to attend. He and Berrin had sparred many times, but never before had Uther seen such deliberation and skill in the man. The hand gripping his sword hilt was slick with sweat. 

Berrin joined him in the cleared space. “Is this what you want, Uther?” he asked, arms spread wide. Uther had learned though, since those early days, not to rush at a man who seemed unguarded. Victory was claimed by weighing him up, following the flow of the battle until your opponent made a mistake.

“Very good,” Berrin said as they continued to circle each other. He thrust with his sword; one, two steps; testing. Uther met each blow with a sing of steel.

“If you surrender now, I will overlook this,” Berrin promised.

“It is too late for that,” Uther replied. “I have no choice in this.”

Berrin smirked darkly. “So be it.” Halfway through the final word, he launched his assault.

It was a fight like no other Uther had ever been in. Berrin’s blows landed hard and fast, the reverberations shuddering up Uther’s arm until it went numb. Berrin was a relentless foe; his footwork cleaner and smoother than it ever was when they crossed swords in practice. Even if their skill was evenly matched, Uther’s youthful agility could not match to Berrin’s stamina. Uther’s breath was coming fast and shallow, sweat near-blinded him as it dripped in his eyes. As he skipped backwards from a cutting jab Berrin made with the blade, his feet caught one another and sent him stumbling. 

Berrin’s sword flashed at him again, pressing the advantage. Uther lifted his hand: the guard caught his arm at the vambrace. Already off balance, it toppled him. Berrin knelt over him; a huge, calloused hand pinning him to the floor. He cast his sword aside and began to fumble for at his waist, feeling for the dagger that had scarred Uther’s brow years before. He had often praised the merits of killing by the knife: its size allowed for greater precision, for a swift death. He called it a form of kindness. Uther saw the older man’s gaze flicker for just a second, trying to locate his blade. In that moment, he seized his chance. A knee to the groin; legs tangling; a bodily switch. He snatched the dagger from Berrin’s belt and braced the beaten man’s throat with his forearm.

“I have defeated you,” Uther said.

“You have defeated me.” Berrin wheezed his agreement, recovering from the low blow. “Congratulations, Uther.”

“You fought well,” Uther replied. “Better than I knew you could.”

Berrin smiled grimly. “Never show a man in sport what you can really do. That way, when he turns on you, you can still surprise him.”

Uther narrowed his eyes. “Who _are_ you?” he asked. The knife dinted the skin of Berrin’s chest, a small, glossy bead of blood swelled at its point. He bent in as Berrin licked his lips. 

“I am Berrin, eldest son of Belthin, who was king of these lands before The Bastard slew him and stole his crown.”

“You are the son of a _king_?” Uther hissed. “You have always claimed to be an orphan.”

“My father, mother and sister Ygraine were killed before my eyes,” he said. “My two youngest siblings were not within the walls of Hwrlic when The Bastard struck, but I have not had news of them for many years. The only birth family I still have is The Bastard himself: my father’s illegitimate child. So you see,” he chuckled mirthlessly, “you are not the first brother of mine to betray me.”

Uther’s hand trembled. The knife wavered in his grip. “I don’t want to do this,” he whispered.

Berrin smiled. “You have no choice,” he replied. He pushed himself up into the blade. “Finish it,” he said fearlessly.

Uther granted his wish. He was not, however, as skilled with a point as Berrin. He felt the convulsive jerk of the man beneath him and fell to one side, rear thumping with a heavy reality to the bare flags beneath. Berrin’s mouth moved and finally words formed. “Tell me... your real... name, brother,” he asked, his voice ragged and weak. Uther pulled the dying man close, cradling him against his body. As the final breath left Berrin, Uther whispered the truth in his ear. Then he closed Berrin’s eyes, kissed his brow and lowered him to the ground. Damp splashes darkened the flagstones, beside the blood. Uther realised they were tears, his tears. He scrubbed at his face, ashamed, and looked up to the men.

“Berrin was a great and noble man,” he said, trying to force strength into his trembling voice. “But he was betrayed by the past. He thought that what we are is better than what we can be. These raiders from across the waves threaten the farmers with whom we trade, they burn the lands where we form our camps. It is true they have not threatened us directly but for how long? By fighting for the people, we protect ourselves as well. I know many of you have families; wives, lovers, children. Is that not enough to fight for? Who here would not give everything, including his _life_ , to protect his family?” The words were bitter ash in Uther’s mouth, knowing the lie he and Berrin shared, but the eyes that met him were filled with righteous fire. “Berrin’s death...” Uther licked his lips. “Berrin’s death was one such sacrifice - allowing us to stand together. At dawn, I will raise a pyre for him and after that I will ride out to face my enemies. Who will stand with me?”

“I shall,” said one of the men, stepping forward.

“And I,” another said, joining the first. 

One by one, the men swore themselves to Uther’s cause.

****

Merlin hurried through the corridors of castle Camelot, making for the royal apartments. Every few light springs, he had to backtrack to Gaius’s side.

At length, they reached the king’s bedroom. It was dark inside, drapes had been drawn across the windows by the servants. Arthur lay amid clean bedding. He had been washed and dressed, like mourners anointing a body. There were some dark whispers among the household that he would never recover from this state, that it was the effect of _sorcery_. He was pale but, to Merlin, he just looked asleep. The urge to throw back the hangings and cry _‘Up and at ‘em,’_ was almost overwhelming. 

Gaius laid his hand to Arthur’s brow. He took a small cup of water by the bedside and held it to the sleeping man’s mouth. A glistening sliver of water moistened his dry lips. Arthur’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. 

Merlin unstoppered the vial of potion he was carrying. He sniffed it. “This smells better than most things you have me drink,” he quipped.

“I wish you would take this more seriously,” Gaius scolded.

“But it’s nearly over,” Merlin countered. “You said yourself that Leon and Gwaine will recover in time, and that all I need to do with Arthur is to guide him back out of his dream. Nothing is _ever_ this simple!”

“No, it isn’t,” Gaius said gravely.

Merlin frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Have you _thought_ about what you will say to Arthur when you find him, or even how to find him?”

Merlin glanced at Arthur’s supine form. “C’mon Gaius, even Arthur’s head isn’t _that_ big.”

“The world inside Arthur’s mind is everything he is, everything he ever has been and ever known. It could hold any dream, or wild imagining, hope or desire.”

“So, there’s probably an unlimited supply of chicken and wine, and a hunt that never ends.”

“Merlin!” Gaius snapped angrily. “This is not a game! Many latent mages _never_ come out of their trances. They die within it.”

Merlin’s stomach clenched. “What do you mean ‘they _die’_?”

“Sometimes the shock of what happened was too great for the mind to bear. How do you think Arthur will feel finding out he has magic?”

“He’ll...” Merlin chewed his lip. “He’ll refuse to believe it.”

“Until he accepts it, he will stay trapped. You have to make him see magic as something other than a curse.”

“That won’t be easy.”

“No,” said Gaius.

Merlin nodded slowly. He drew his lips together. “So what do I do?” he asked.

“Well first, I would suggest lying on the bed,” Gaius said. 

Merlin did as he was bid. Even though Arthur lay in the middle of the soft, accommodating mattress, Merlin still had room to lie without any improper contact. Gaius took the vial from Merlin and, as he had for Arthur some moments before, he held it to Merlin’s lips. Merlin swallowed the sweet potion.

“Are you forgetting something?” Gaius prompted. 

Merlin’s brain swirled. It already felt like vaporous clouds filled his head. He was in Arthur’s bed. He had taken a potion. The potion. The potion that would let him enter Arthur’s dreams if only... if...

“Oh, yeah,” he said sleepily. He reached out and took Arthur’s hand in his. His eyes drooped closed. Distantly he felt Gaius brush his fringe from his forehead, stroking his hair.

‘ _Stupid boy_ ,’ he heard muttered and then, nothing more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting, hopefully it should continue more regularly now.

It was dark, the kind of absolute darkness that could only be found in a deep place; a cavern or mine. It was cold as well, Merlin felt the hairs on his arms prickle. “Hello?” he called into the black beyond. His voice was muffled and did not echo in whatever space it was that he occupied. A small scuffled, snuffling noise came from somewhere in the emptiness. It sounded like someone crying. “Hello?” he called again. He took a small step forward, his hands held out in front of him, feeling his way.

The whimper seemed a little louder. 

He shuffled forward again, little steps, fearful for some unperceived obstacle in his path. As an extension of Sod’s law, his foot caught on one such precise obstacle. He sprawled, the ground thumping almost gleefully into him. His eyes flew open and thin light flooded in. He groaned. He was asleep - of course his eyes were closed. A quick scan of his environmentooked around. He was in one of the corridors of castle Camelot. The wall sconces were unlit and only blue moonlight lit the stones. A small boy huddled away from him, pressed into the far corner of the corridor, face buried under his arm.

Merlin got to his feet slowly, dusting himself down. “Hey,” he said softly. He walked towards the boy, halted as the little creature cowered and a sob escaped him. Merlin crouched and held out his hand as he would to a frightened animal. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Who are you?”

The boy lifted his face from behind his arm. Red-rimmed blue eyes peeked out at Merlin.

“Don’t tell my father,” the boy said.

“Your father?”

“U... Uther...” the boy stammered tearfully. “Uther Pendragon. The king. He’ll be so angry with me.”

“Arthur?” Merlin asked. He studied the boy. He looked to be about seven or eight, a blonde haired, blue-eyed moppet, cheeks grubby with salt lines streaked along them. If he hadn’t said his parentage, Merlin would never have guessed this was the friend he had known for so many years.

“I don’t know you,” Arthur said. “Do you work in the castle?”

“I will,” replied Merlin. The boy frowned. “Yes,” Merlin corrected. “I work for Gaius.”

The boy brightened. “Uncle Gaius?” he asked.

“Um, yeah. Uncle Gaius.”

“Did he send you?” Arthur asked. His body relaxed a little, beginning to unfurl.

Merlin supposed that, in a way, Gaius had sent him. “He did.” He held out his hand. The boy took it. “He wanted me to bring you to him.”

The boy chewed his lip fretfully. “Is he going to tell father what I did?”

Merlin shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he assured. _He’d have a hard time_ , he added mentally.

Blinking, they boy looked up into Merlin’s face. “There is something about your eyes...” he said. Whispers of adulthood wavered in his voice. He shook his head as if clearing it. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” he sniffled.

Merlin tightened his hold on the boy’s hand, squeezing supportively and began leading him down the corridor. “You didn’t,” he promised. “This is just who you are. Magic is not something to be ashamed of.”

“What has magic got to do with not going to sword practice?” the boy queried.

“Sword practice?” Merlin asked. 

The boy rolled his eyes. Suddenly, he looked very much more like Arthur. “I didn’t go to sword practice this morning. I wanted to go and see the spring procession in the lower town. There were flowers _everywhere_.”

“ _Flowers_?” Merlin asked.

“Do you always do that?” Arthur asked, “Repeat people? Are you an idiot?”

Merlin smiled. “Idiot?” he asked. The boy laughed. “So did you enjoy the procession?”

“Yeah...” Arthur said, “but then one of the boys I was supposed to be at practice with saw me and said he was going to tell the master-at-arms.”

“And the master-at-arms would tell Uther.”

Arthur nodded glumly. “Father says I have to train every day or else I won’t be ready to fight in the tournament for my anniversary.”

“He wants you to fight in a tourney? How old _are_ you?”

Arthur pulled himself upright; he stretched so he was obviously standing on tiptoe. “I will be twelve in the autumn.”

“But you’re so li...”

Arthur pursed his lips.

Merlin changed his tact. “I’m sure Uther will understand if you missed just one session,” he said. He glanced about. It was strange; they had been walking for several minutes and there had neither been turn nor door leading from the hallway. Camelot was a maze; stairways, store rooms, guest rooms. He didn’t recognise this part of the castle at all.

“If you believe that, you have never met my father,” Arthur replied. “He says that what sets the nobility apart from the common rabble is their sense of duty.”

Merlin frowned.

“I, um... didn’t mean any offence,” Arthur added hurriedly.

“Oh, I’m far from common,” Merlin said absently. The corridor went on and on. He was beginning to get worried. He hastened his step, tugging Arthur’s hand to keep up.

Stubbornly, Arthur planted his feet. “Well, if you’re not a commoner, then who _are_ you?” he demanded.

Merlin stopped. He turned and looked down at Arthur. What harm could it do? The boy didn’t even know who he was. “I’m Emrys,” he said.

Arthur snatched his hand away. His eyes were wide with fear but he seemed not to be looking at Merlin nor listening to him. He was staring over Merlin’s shoulder. “You lied!” he yelled. “You brought me to my father!”

Merlin turned back, following Arthur’s gaze. There, where seconds ago had been a corridor the huge, carven oak door of the throne room loomed threateningly before them. Behind them, the straight path of the corridor led only back to a dead end. There were no other choices. “Come on, Arthur, maybe it won’t be so bad,” he tried to reassure. He put his hand to the wood.

“No!” Arthur cried. Fresh tears fell from his eyes. “Please! Please don’t!”

“Arthur, he’ll only tell you off. You’re his son, it’s not like he’ll hang you for treason.”

“You don’t understand. My father... my father’s word is law...” Arthur’s teeth were chattering. He still looked like the boy-Arthur but his voice was the adult’s; stretched thin with terror. “The law... the law...”

Merlin took Arthur by the shoulders. “The law is not always right.” He knew they were no longer talking about some fictional or historical disobedience. “Being born is not a crime, being you isn’t an offence.”

Arthur blinked blurrily. He turned his head and wiped his nose on Merlin’s sleeve.

“Thanks,” said Merlin. He sighed. “Come on. We’ll go through together,” he said.

Slowly, Arthur nodded. Merlin pushed open the door.

A hot, dry breeze swirled into the corridor. Red light poured through the open doorway. The smell of mud and blood and terrible battle assailed Merlin’s nose. It was the battle he had just left: in his past, this Arthur’s future. The whole confusing web of time made Merlin’s head hurt. The few times he had stared beyond it had nearly been his undoing. He stepped through, into the ravaged plain. Above him, the sky was in turmoil, shot through with an unnatural scarlet that matched the colour of the soil. He looked for Arthur, saw him on the other side of the door; a portal fringed by darkness, his eyes shadowed. He held out his hand to him. “Come with me,” Merlin said. “I will keep you safe.”

Arthur faltered and then shook his head.

“Arthur, I promise nothing bad will happen to you.”

“I’m scared,” Arthur replied.

“I know,” assured Merlin. “But there’s nothing to be afraid of. Your magic isn’t something to fear, Arthur.”

“I don’t _have_ magic!” Arthur cried. Above Merlin, thunder rolled.

“Just come through the door and we can talk about it.”

“I don’t _want_ to talk about it. I don’t have magic. I don’t. I _don’t_!”

The air howled around Merlin, static crackled on his skin. “Look at this, Arthur,” he said, “this is your doing. We are _both_ in your mind right now. You know me. I’m Merlin. You know you can trust me. I’m your friend.”

“No!” Arthur shouted. He slammed the door to a huge clap of thunder followed by a blinding flash of lightening. It threw Merlin back onto the muddy ground. He groaned and rested his head back, closing his eyes. The world went black.

****

Gaius plodded from the Royal bedchambers. With Merlin laid out beside Arthur, and a guard on the door with absolute instructions not to enter them, he needed to see a man about a dog. Or, more accurately, a man about a _book_. 

The Grand Library was a haven of learning and tranquillity. Other than his apothecary, it was all Gaius had left that he truly thought of as home. The old temple, the novice’s quarters, the Circle of the Dragonlords. They had all been pulled down, burned down, or crushed into sand by Uther’s wrath. Even the great cavern, where legends told the first dragon egg had been found, had been defaced - made into a prison. And Gaius had played his part in all of that. He told himself, time and time again before he fell asleep, that he did it to save as many followers of the old ways as he could; that he sacrificed himself to save his kin. This library was a refuge: it held the past, all of the past that had been saved, and offered hope for the future. Within these walls, the truth about the Pendragon line could be found. Even if Arthur could be brought out of his extended slumber, there would still be much to do. Uther had taught not only his son the greatest distrust of magic, but an entire kingdom.

He found Geoffrey of Monmouth napping at his desk. The old librarian did that more and more these days. It only seemed five minutes since he and Gaius were both chasing the hand of the same fair maiden. The name of the woman escaped Gaius’s memory, but he could remember her eyes. He could also vaguely recall the two of them lifting a flagon or twelve in the tavern together the day that they found out their fair maiden was in fact the lover of one of the priestesses. Those were simpler times.

Gaius coughed lightly. Geoffrey startled awake. “Third row, second on the left!” he called. Gaius waited for him to come around. “Oh, Gaius,” he said finally. “You’re back.”

“Yes,” Gaius agreed. He didn’t feel inclined to explain all that went into bringing him back, and those who had not returned. Geoffrey had been lost in his work for so long that life and death were mere entries in books. 

“What can I do for you?”

Gaius licked his lips. “I need access to the Pendragon family history.”

Geoffrey’s face whitened. “Such a thing is beyond my power.”

“Because you can’t give it me, or won’t give it me?”

Geoffrey was on his feet. He began skittishly rearranging the papers on his desk. “Should such a thing exist,” he blustered, “then it would surely be sealed on pain of death.”

“But Uther himself is dead, now. It is very hard for a dead man to pass sentence.”

Geoffrey laughed, a rotund sound with just a twist of bitterness. “Are we talking about the same Uther Pendragon?”

“Geoffrey, Arthur’s life, even the kingdom itself, could rely on what is held within those archives.”

“I have never even seen them myself, Gaius. How could I possibly grant you access to them.”

“You are more worried about what _you_ don’t know as what I _need_ to?”

“I am worried what you might find within it. There has to be a reason that Uther chose to keep them secret.”

“I fear that Uther had too many secrets.”

Geoffrey sighed. “You won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, will you?” he said.

“Not on this,” Gaius replied.

Slowly, Geoffrey took a heavy gold chain from around his neck. On the end dangled a brass key. He weighed it thoughtfully in his hand. “If I give you this,” he said, “it is _only_ for you. You must swear that you will show it to _no-one_ else.”

“If that is your condition, you have my word,” Gaius agreed.

Geoffrey crossed to Gaius and passed the chain to him. Gaius curled his fingers, squeezing the key to his palm. “Thank you old friend,” he said. 

Geoffrey patted his hand. “We will see if you still consider me a friend when you have read it,” he said.

****

It was the night before battle, and Uther could not sleep. He and his band of men, a hundred to start with and perhaps one hundred and sixty now that their ranks had swelled with some of the people’s they had defended, had successfully driven the Westernmen back to the coast. Their forces now camped only a few score yards from each other, close enough that if Uther were to close his eyes, he could almost hear the enemy’s men sharpening their swords. 

It was not that Uther felt any great hatred towards the men. One only had to see them fight to know that they were desperate. Indeed, they fought with great fervour and fury that could only come from a cause as righteous as Uther’s own. Many of them were highly skilled, but under-supplied. Their main weakness was that they seemed to lack direction: a single leader to unite them. If they did, what a force they could become.

The plain that was to be the final battlefield was within the shadow of the castle of Hwrlic. Not a man had ridden forth from that place; the privileged cowering behind their stone curtains refusing the protect even those they taxed. Indeed, if Uther clung to hatred, it was hatred of the inhabitants of that castle. They reminded him of Camelot; the nobles hiding behind their knights, the knights hiding behind the Dragonlords and the Dragonlords themselves behind the dragons. They disgusted Uther. He would rather charge with the vanguard totally unarmed or armoured than be such a coward. 

It was with this realisation that he had begun to formulate a plan, one which would turn his anger where it should be directed. But he was not sure of it, of _himself_ in truth. He had led his men so far with the promise of absolute victory, of throwing the Westernmen back into the sea in bodies made of their comrades’ skin. But what if that didn’t _have_ to be? What if the greater good could be served in some other way?

The hanging to his tent twitched. The grave face and dark brown eyes of Gorlois, one of Uther’s appointed commanders, appeared through the gap.

“It is nearing dawn,” Gorlois said, he deep, rich voice filling the small tent. Uther nodded and sat up in his small cot. Gorlois began to withdraw.

“Hold,” said Uther. He ached in body and in soul but he did not let his weariness show in his voice. Gorlois stopped. “I want you to fetch Aegan, Timmin and Domitius; I have something to discuss with you all.”

Surprise flitted across Gorlois’s brow which he hid quickly behind a frown. The summoned men, and Gorlois himself, were all Gollwyds: they had been the first to step forward when Uther took control of their band and were staunch allies and good fighters all. Uther might call them ‘friends’ if there ever came time for such luxuries. 

They arrived together and stood within Uther’s tent fidgeting like children nervous of being scolded. Uther ran his gaze over each in turn. Gorlois, with his far-seeing eyes, was the oldest of the twain and had been born to the Gollwyd. He was a natural match for the best archer ever offered in any tourney Uther had seen and only a hair’s breadth from as good with a sword. Aegan was much akin to Uther’s age; he had been a shepherd until an unjust Lord seized his lands and put his flock to the slaughter. While technically an outsider, he had the ability to talk his way out of as many situations as he fought and Uther respected his judgement. Timmin and Domitius were true-brothers, a little younger still, with the fierce eagerness of untarnished youth. Both were fast of foot and as quiet as a stalking cat. Many times, Uther had based his strategy on what they reported from their scouting and had never once had his faith been proven unworthy.

He stood. “I have brought you here because I want your opinions on a matter that concerns me. The Westernmen are all but defeated, and will soon be driven back across the sea to their Hibernian home.”

Timmin and Domitius’s smiles widened at Uther’s confidence.

“But,” Uther continued, “what do we gain by this victory? We do not own the lands we fight for, nor will we even once the Westernmen are cast out. All these rich and plentiful lands are held by those who even now cling to each other in fear within the walls of castle Hwrlic, watching as we fight the battle that should rightfully be theirs.”

“They know that they cannot stand against us,” Gorlois said, his voice a low growl that seemed to emanate straight from his chest.

Uther shook his head. “The look out and they see an army, one army, of sides they do not know; both we and the Westernmen are their enemy. They fear our _combined_ numbers. Alone we are not strong enough, they would grow bolder and more dangerous.”

“You propose a treaty with the Westernmen,” Aegan said quietly. His thoughtful face, eyes narrowed, brow lowered, seemed to be weighing the course of action before Uther even confirmed it.

“Yes,” Uther agreed. Violent dissent broke from the lips of the two youngest soldiers. Uther spoke over them. “Because _together_ we will have the power to stand up to the Bastard King, to be recognised by the kingdom that should have been Berrin’s, and to have our voice heard. With so many men, the Bastard would have no choice but to accept me into his court as a noble Lord and from there we would get everything we desired; land, stability, prosperity - enough for the Westernmen as well to settle and yet cause us no harm.”

“I am not sure that the Westernmen would agree to that,” Gorlois said. “They are brave and relentless fighters.”

“Who want nothing more than we look for ourselves,” Uther replied. “Tell me you have not admired the way they have battled us; the way they have died with honour.”

Aegan and Gorlois grumbled reluctant assent.

“But if we entreat with them,” said Timmin, always the more outgoing of the two, “then what was the point of _fighting_ them? Many of our number have died as well.”

“We fought because we believed we were different. But I say that these men are more our brothers than those frightened Lordlings and dishonourable usurpers that are of this land.”

“The Gollwyd people have always taken brave allies where they found them, regardless of their past,” Gorlois admitted, rubbing his beard.

“You forget one thing,” Aegan said. “These are _not_ our allies. Why would they agree to our terms?”

“Because,” said Uther, “I would send you to them, to explain what I have said here. Aegan, you are wise and trustworthy, they would see what you are saying is true.”

“You’d not have him go alone!” Timmin exclaimed.

Uther shook his head. “No, I would send you and Domitius with him. You can find your way to their camp without being detected and call for parley.”

“And if they choose to kill us?” enquired Timmin.

“Then Gorlois will be set some way away with his bow to pick off those who would assail you and to clear a path for your retreat. I will not lie and say this course is without its danger, but we stand to claim a much greater prize from its success than if we simply put down our opponents at first light.”

Silence reigned in the tent. It was a dangerous moment for Uther, where any one of these armed men could turn on him suddenly and take his life for such presumption.

Domitius put his hand to his sword hilt. He licked his lips. “I like it,” he said finally. The other men turned to look at him. Domitius spoke with an unusually high voice and that often made him hold his tongue. That he had been the first to agree spoke of his resolution to this path. 

“If he likes it, I like it,” Timmin agreed.

“It’s just mad enough for the Westernmen,” Gorlois said gruffly.

Aegan stepped forward and offered Uther his arm. “If you want to try this, Uther, then I am with you.”

Uther grasped the man’s arm; took each of the others in turn. “You make me proud to have such allies,” he said.

“We are your _friends_ , Uther,” Aegan promised. “We will stick by you regardless.”

Uther laughed grimly. “We shall see if you still call me your friend when all this is done.”

****

Merlin flailed himself upright on Arthur’s bed with a ragged, laboured inhalation. He felt like he had just emerged from being beneath water for too long; his lungs burned, everywhere burned. Merlin touched his cheeks: they smarted. He got up and looked in the mirror, they were a raw pink colour; not just flushed but genuinely scorched as if by spending too long in the sun. He felt them tentatively.

“How the hell...” he whispered. How could what happened in the dream affect his real body? Even Merlin himself could not have done that. He turned and looked back at Arthur, sleeping as peaceful as ever. It just made no sense. 

He needed Gaius.

~~~~

After much searching, questioning, and getting hit on the head by an over-zealous cook who thought he was after her pies, Merlin tracked Gaius down to a quiet spot in the gardens. The blossom-laden branches hung so low around the bench that they almost veiled Gaius from sight, brushing their petals lovingly on a slowly trickling fountain-pool before him. 

Merlin batted a few trailing tendrils away to let him past. Gaius looked up, closing a dusty tome he held in his hand as he did.

“Merlin,” he greeted casually. He squinted. “What happened to you?”

“I think we can safely say Arthur is a latent mage,” Merlin explained.

“He did this? He’s awake?”

Merlin shook his head. “No. He did this in his _dream_ ,” he said. “Inside his mind... I saw him as a little boy. He was frightened. He thought Uther was going to punish him for missing sword practice; that he had to prepare for a tourney he was to fight in on his birthday.”

“Interesting,” said Gaius, “that he would choose to hide in such a memory.”

“Well, I’m not sure it was a memory exactly. He barely looked big enough to hold a sword, but he said the tournament was for his twelfth anniversary.”

“I remember it,” Gaius said. Merlin blinked at him. “Arthur was a very small boy. It wasn’t until the summer before his sixteenth birthday that he became recognisable as the man you know today. I tried to convince Uther to let me give him something to stimulate his growth but he would always say that time was all he required.”

“And Uther _really_ made him fight in a tourney like that?”

Gaius nodded. “For about ten seconds, against Leon. But it was enough to scare him into never missing sword practice again.”

Merlin shook his head. “That man was twisted.”

Gaius tapped the book on his knee absently. “I have to agree,” he said.

Merlin peered at Gaius’ lap. “Is that the...”

“Pendragon family history. Yes,” Gaius said.

“Can I see it?” Merlin asked, moving for it without waiting for a response.

Gaius drew a fold in his robe across it. “I have only just begun to study it myself, but it would seem that Uther did indeed have a magical heritage.”

“But... all of the things he did... Even if magic did play a part in the death of his wife, to sentence so many; men, women, _children_ , people who were his kin...”

Gaius’s face became stern. “It would seem Uther’s issues with magic ran deeper than even I suspected.”

“Surely nothing could justify the things he did. It wasn’t _right_ , Gaius.” 

“No, it wasn’t right,” Gaius agreed resignedly. “But perhaps it was understandable.”

“Maybe if I read for myself...”

“No,” barked Gaius sharply. Merlin’s face must have betrayed his surprise, for he softened his tone; “Merlin, this book is _not_ for you. I made Geoffrey a solemn vow that only I would ever read it.”

“But how am I supposed to help Arthur unless I can explain what is happening to him? I need _something_ to tell him, to make him see this isn’t his fault. This,” said Merlin, pointing at his cheeks, “isn’t going to bring him back to us.” _To me_ , a little voice inside his head corrected.

“And I will tell you everything you need to know,” Gaius said. “For now, I can say that Arthur’s magical line is an ancient one, and powerful. Uther himself might have been a great sorcerer were it not...” He shook his head in a silent denial. “Uther was abandoned by his family, and a ceremony was forced upon him to sever him from his gift when he was but a boy. He first turned to the sword out of need, rather than wish.”

Merlin felt a bursting swell in his chest; a confusion of his anger at the arrogant, ignorant man he knew and the lost, broken boy Gaius was describing. “Why would anyone do such a thing?” he croaked.

Gaius sighed a jaded sigh. “It was believed that Uther was to pose a great threat to magic, and that it was the only way to avoid such a fate.”

“Ah,” Merlin replied.

The elder physician began to get to his feet. As he did, a wispy leaf of the volume in his hand fluttered almost imperceptibly to the ground. Merlin stepped quickly to his side, picking up the fragment. It was like thin papyrus, a delicate weave of fibres so fine that it was translucent. He folded it and tucked it into his sleeve and hurried to assist his friend. When he first came to Camelot, he had considered Gaius an old man - but then he saw Uther as an old man back then as well. Now, more years than Merlin wished to count later, Gaius truly _was_ an old man; bent under cares he should not have to bear. However, it did not escape Merlin that Gaius shifted the genealogy to his free hand even as he accepted the assistance. 

In that moment, Merlin knew he should have returned the errant page to Gaius. He also knew he would not; this tiny fragment was for _him_ , for all the many things Gaius was obviously withholding himself. Instead, he levelled what he hoped was a supportive smile. “So have you learned anything that can help me with Arthur?” he asked.

“There is perhaps something,” Gaius confirmed, patting Merlin’s arm. “According to this history, Uther and Arthur shared one very important trait. What was a weakness for one was the other’s greatest strength.” 

“And the answer to the riddle?” asked Merlin, the vaguest pout pursing his lips.

Gaius smiled. He blinked up at Merlin, the sun in his eyes. “Love,” he said simply.


	4. Chapter 4

Uther paced impatiently in the open courtyard annexed to the audience chamber of Castle Hwrlic. He itched; both figuratively and literally. The men had agreed that, in order to be accepted as a Lord, Uther must look like one. They had made him swap fur for velvet; iron for steel; his hair had been shorn close; he had kept his beard. Uther claimed he would not give up that part of his identity. In truth, when he had come to see himself in a mirror for the first time in many years, it was his father’s eyes staring back: he did not want to know the face that was behind the beard.

Gorlois huffed. “Will you please stand still, Uther,” he grumbled. “You are making me nervous.” He tugged at his sleeve. Although the clothes he wore were not as fine as Uther’s, he was dressed in clean cottons and a heavily woven cloak of red. Aegan, Timmin and Domitius were similarly attired and loitered untidily around the courtyard.

Uther squared his shoulders and planted his feet. At that moment, the heavy doors to the audience chamber opened. 

A soldier stepped into the portal. “Uther Pendragon, Lord of the Gollwydians of the lower valley and coastal plain,” he announced and moved aside.

Uther’s stomach clenched. He gripped for where his sword should be, clutching only empty leather scabbard. The Bastard King did not allow any before him armed but his most loyal guards. The men pressed behind Uther. He took a deep breath and entered the audience chamber, the soldier by his side.

The scene that greeted him was not what Uther expected. The entire audience chamber was filled with silks and satin, a heavy smell of perfume. Opulent cushions softened the stone floor and a number of barely-clad men and women lounged on them. A low table was set amid them, over-laden with roasted meats and plump, ripe fruit. At the far end of the hall was a dais with a single, over-large throne set upon it. A wiry man slouched casually in it, sideways across its width, his legs flopped over the arm. His long, black hair was pulled back from the temple and tied behind him in a way Uther had only seen women wear it. He clapped gleefully as Uther entered the room.

“ _Lord_ Pendragon of the Golliwydan people,” the Bastard King said.

“Gollwydian,” Uther corrected. The soldier stiffened. “ _Sire_ ,” Uther added.

The Bastard King laughed. “Come forward, Lord Pendragon. I have a soft spot for those who do not know their place.”

The words came as an echo of the past. This man, outwardly so different to Berrin, spoke with his voice. It drew a cold shiver up Uther’s spine. A few paces from the dais, the soldier stopped him. Uther felt the press of his men behind him.

The Bastard King looked over Uther’s shoulder. “And who do we have here?” he asked. 

Uther cleared his throat and half-turned to his companions. They had practiced this part. “My knights,” Uther explained. “Sers Gorlois, Aegan, Timmin and Domitius.” With each of their names, the man bowed courteously.

“Your knights,” the Bastard King drawled. “Your _knights_.” He laughed. Others joined in.

“My knights,” Uther agreed.

“You do know that the Knight’s Code states that knights can only come from noble families?” the Bastard King enquired sweetly. The four bothers-in-arms murmured angrily. The soldier tensed, even the foppish little playthings scattered like ribbons on the floor sat up.

“Where we come from, these men are the noblest family a man could ask for,” Uther growled. Even without his weapon, he knew himself to be a match for any in the room and, combined, he and his men could take the entire Royal harem without breaking sweat. The held-breath tension stretched like drawn wire; brittling. A single, sudden move could break it.

The Bastard King swivelled on his seat, leaning forward. His eyes, dark brown pits that sparkled with clear, debauched madness, met Uther’s. A faint smile ticked the king’s cheek. Slowly, he drew his hands together in a clap. “Well said,” he announced, loudly enough for all the court to hear. “You and I know it is utter nonsense,” he said more quietly, pitched only for Uther. He smiled a sickly sweet smile that spoke of a secret he thought they shared.

“Welcome, Lord Pendragon and your knights,” he said, once more loudly enough for all to note. “We hope you will stay with us awhile.”

Uther glanced back to his knights. “My people are in need of their Lord,” he said. “We have, um, some political matters to settle.”

“And what better place to resolve them than here, in the fair and magnanimous court of the sixth kingdom.” 

“I’m... am grateful for your suggestion, sire,” Uther said. He wanted to look at his men but he dared show no weakness. “But there are many things that require my personal attention.”

The Bastard King chuckled. “Such as deciding which of your newly expanded family takes the valley and which the coast.”

Uther gritted his teeth. “Such as finding points of trade to replenish our supplies before the winter,” he said.

“Well, let me make that easy for you,” the Bastard King said. “Whilst ever you remain within the walls of Castle Hwrlic, your people will be free to trade within the markets here. As you can see...” he gestured to the strewn food and bodies, “we have many delights for them to sample.”

“It is a generous offer...”

“You would do better to think of it as a command from your king than an offer, Lord Pendragon. I like to keep my loyal subjects _close_ to me.” The way the king’s eye roved over Uther made him uncomfortable.

The Bastard King clapped again. “Ygraine,” he called, “why don’t you see to the comfort of our guests?”

A woman appeared at the side of the throne. Uther had not noticed her before or, rather, he had not recognised her as being part of the court. Uther had sized up every inch of the audience chamber from the moment he had stepped in to it: from the three people curled in the far corner, sleeping with the reckless abandon of coital haze, to the archer perched in the rafters above them, to the smell of blood which the perfumed incense could not quite hide. The woman: he had thought a statue, tucked into an alcove. Her clothes were the purest white, her skin like alabaster. She carried herself with the grace and pose of an angel and her face was held in a beatific sombreness, like a carving of purity itself. As a sculpture, she was magnificent. Closer, the delicate rise and fall of her breaths showing the life in her, she was the most beautiful thing that Uther had ever seen. The Bastard King’s smile was knowing.

“Lord Pendragon, may I introduce the Lady Ygraine,” he sneered.

Uther’s eyes went wide, flickering over the perfect face of the women before him. “Your half-sister?” he whispered.

“My _wife_ ,” the Bastard King corrected. “Or she will be when she finally gives herself to me.” He reached up and stroked his finger along her arm. Uther saw her muscles tense, the deep revulsion in her, even as she held her face immobile. “Until then, she is simply a strategic alliance with which I cement my claim to this throne.”

“But you do not love her.” It was a statement from Uther, a denial almost.

“What has love to do with marriage?” the Bastard King asked. “Power doesn’t come from love. Power comes from fear.” He ceased stroking Ygraine’s arm, grabbing it instead with a fierce grip. “Doesn’t it, darling?”

Ygraine’s lips trembled but defiance flashed in her eyes. “That is what you say, my Lord.”

The Bastard King sneered in disgust. He cast her arm away. “I am your _king_ ,” he barked. “ _This_ is your Lord. And you will do as I say!”

“As it pleases your highness,” Ygraine said, dropping a petite curtsey. “If you would follow me, my Lord,” she said to Uther. “I will take you and your knights to an apartment more suited to you.” She brushed his arm with feather-light fingers, a cruel parody of the harshness of the Bastard King. 

Uther swallowed. He felt heat flashing through him from the very spot Ygraine touched him. “Thank you, my Lady,” he said, blood pounding in his ears. He saw Gorlois and Aegan swap looks of grim amusement. He ran his eyes the long sweep of Ygraine’s spine, the soft sashay of her dress, before pulling himself together and following her from the audience chamber.

~~~~

Ygraine led Uther and his knights through a maze of stone corridors, settling Gorlois and Aegan first into one room and Timmin and Domitius into another, before bringing Uther to a fine chamber that looked out across the sea. The waves stretched like an endless blue-grey plain into the distance until in once more met the land; the land of his Gollwyd Westernmen. The sound of the water on the rocks was a soft murmur, a repetitive hushing that lulled the senses and the soul.

“I trust the room is to your satisfaction,” Ygraine asked. Uther turned to her.

“Excuse me, my lady?”

“Do you like the view?” she asked, a faint smile on her lips.

Uther realised her eyes were the same colour as the sea. “Y... yes,” he stammered. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is as far from the king’s apartments as I could find. My own chambers look out over this aspect.”

Uther licked his lips. “Are you truly Ygraine, daughter of Belthin?” he asked.

“You are asking if the king has in truth taken his half-sister as wife,” she said.

“No,” said Uther. “Well, yes. But I knew your brother.”

Ygraine’s eyes lit up, the grey seemed to brighten to the purest blue. “Tristan? Or little Agravaine?” she asked hopefully.

Uther shook his head. “Berrin,” he said.

Ygraine hurried to him urgently. She took his hand. Uther felt her breath on his lips. “Berrin lives?” she whispered.

Uther’s chest tightened. “He did. He... fell, my Lady. In this war which the Ba... the _king_ ,” Uther corrected himself, “chose not to fight.” He could not tell her that the hand she now held was the one that had killed him. 

Tears fell silently from Ygraine’s eyes. Suddenly, she pulled back and wiped them away, blinking. She drew a deep breath. “I had thought him long dead,” she said shakily. “It seems silly to weep for him now.”

“He was a good man, a good friend, a good brother” Uther said softly. “It is not wrong to weep for such a one.” It was against everything Uther had been raised to believe, but he could not deny Ygraine this. He did not think he would ever be able to deny her anything. He brushed her damp cheek, and saw her startle. “I am sorry,” he said quietly.

“It is not your fault,” Ygraine said. Uther wished nothing more than to tell her his sins, to beg her forgiveness, to drown himself to death in those eyes. He felt his own eyes sting and looked away, staring out of the window.

“Berrin told me he had seen you slain; you and your mother both,” he said.

He felt the warmth of Ygraine against his back, compared to the chill breeze blowing in from the sea. “It is true that the Bastard killed my mother, and that he raised his blade to me as well,” she said, her voice a bitter hiss in his ear. “But I did not die, he would not let me. I begged to be allowed death, but he had physicians tend to me day and night until I could stand. And on that day, he married me.”

“He is a...”

“Bastard by name, and bastard by nature,” Ygraine agreed. The slight space between them closed. He felt her lean gently against his back. “I have never given myself to him, nor ever will I,” she whispered.

“He does not force you?” Uther asked.

“He does not need to lie with me. By the forms, we are man and wife, I am his property and he has made claim to my name and title. That is all he desires of me.”

Uther turned and found her still close to him. “But you are so beautiful,” he said in an awed whisper, the words coming unbidden and surprising him almost as much as they seemed to do her.

“My Lord,” she said, leaning in.

“My Lady,” he replied. Her lips met his in a soft, sweet kiss.

Suddenly she bounded back, a rosy flush infusing her pale cheeks. “I must return to him,” she said. “He may not wish me in his bed, but he is a jealous man and would not see me in another’s.”

Uther nodded dumbly as she took her leave. After the door closed quietly behind her, he threw himself upon his bed, breathing heavily, and listened to the sea.

****

Arthur poured two goblets of wine. He gestured at the empty seat opposite him, at the table in his bedroom. “Please, Merlin, join me,” he said.

Merlin crooked his eyebrow. “Well, I suppose it could happen in a dream,” he muttered. “Usually it’s one of mine...”

“Are you talking to yourself now?” Arthur asked. He threw a bread roll in Merlin’s direction. Merlin ducked expertly and took the chair before the offer was revoked. He closed his eyes just for a second and relished in the warm sunshine. Of course, his eyes were already closed in reality, he knew that. Mostly he was just glad that this second trip into Arthur’s mind was a little less traumatic than the first. He had been worried he would have to trail him all the way through puberty until he found an Arthur ready to talk sense.

“I have been thinking,” Arthur said seriously, “about repealing the law banning magic.”

Merlin, who was mid-sip of the wine, - imaginary or no, it was a particularly fine vintage - spat his mouthful over himself.

“What?” he said, simultaneously attempting to mop up and catch his breath.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “My father introduced those laws thirty years ago in reaction to a threat to the safety of this kingdom. Now, the greatest threat is caused _by_ those very laws.”

“I _have_ been trying to tell you that for a number of years.”

“Well, quite,” Arthur agreed. “And that is why I have asked you to join me today. I value your opinion on this. You are my most trusted advisor.”

Merlin laughed.

“I don’t understand what is so funny,” Arthur said with a small pout.

“Well, I know I never listen to you when you tell me to shut up, but I would hardly call myself your ‘advisor’.”

“Then what would you call yourself?” Arthur asked with a raised eyebrow.

Merlin shrugged. “Well, your servant, I suppose.”

“Maybe once,” Arthur replied, “a long time ago. Now...” He reached across the table and took Merlin’s hand. “I think we both know what we are to each other.”

Merlin laughed skittishly. He found himself on his feet and a safe distance from Arthur. “Um, yeah... I think we are losing sight of the reason why we’re here,” he said. 

Arthur sighed. “Alright,” he reluctantly agreed. “So... what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Legalising magic.”

“Oh, yes. That. May I ask, what has brought about this change of heart?”

Arthur popped a grape into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I just... woke up, I suppose. I realised that being afraid of a natural force was as pointless as being afraid of the sea or... a thunderstorm. You cannot control such a thing and trying will only lead you into greater danger.”

Merlin frowned at him. “And you don’t think there is any more direct reason than this? Anything... personal about it?”

“You can stop dancing about the issue,” Arthur sighed. “What has happened between Morgana and I runs deeper than her use of magic. I know I cannot justify what she has done: to me, to this kingdom, but hopefully repealing this law will stop others from following her.”

Merlin shook his head. This was going around in circles as much as the first encounter. Arthur didn’t know what had happened to him or where they were, at least not consciously. Like this, Merlin would never be able to draw him back out into the real world, he would hide behind old fears and imaginary hopes. The only option was to appeal to his sense of honesty, of loyalty; of love. After all, Gaius had said that that was Arthur’s greatest strength. 

“Arthur,” he said, “ _you_ have magic. None of this is real, you’re trapped in some kind of dream because you can’t accept that. I know how hard this is, but I’m here for you.”

“Merlin, have you been off nipping at the cider again?” Arthur said incredulously.

“No!” Merlin defended. “It’s _true_ Arthur, and if you’re honest with yourself, you know that it is.”

Arthur frowned. He looked away, towards the window. His frown deepened. “What’s happening to the sky?”

Merlin looked to the window. The room had darkened, scarlet fingers crept through the glass. The clouds roiled with unspent anger, looking like great pools of raging blood. He turned back to Arthur. “ _You_ happened to it. This is your magic.”

“I don’t have magic,” Arthur countered angrily, slamming his hand down on the table. Thunder rumbled in his voice.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur,” Merlin said calmly. “You didn’t know, none of us knew. Only Uther knew that you come from a magical heritage and he kept it from everyone.”

“My... my father?” Arthur stammered. He swayed on his feet. “My father fought against magic all his life.”

“Uther was _afraid_ of magic, Arthur, but you are so much braver than him. Please...” Merlin held out his hand again, “come with me. I’ll help you.”

Arthur’s eyes snapped to his. Deep within them, Merlin saw the spark of power. Arthur gritted his teeth, his jaw rippling as he clenched it. “No-one can help me now,” he said bitterly.

The glass in the window shattered, blowing inwards. Merlin lifted his arms to shield his face and it all went dark.

****

Leon’s eye fluttered open to the feeling of damp linen moving over his cheek. He lifted his hand against the sudden influx of light. Gwaine’s face swam into view, the hangings and healing symbols of Gaius’s apothecary resolved behind him.

“Hey,” Gwaine said softly. 

“What’re you doing?” Leon asked, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth, or perhaps his cheek was too swollen for his tongue.

Gwaine shrugged. Leon heard the tinkle of water as Gwaine dipped and squeezed the cloth he was using to bathe Leon’s wound. “Us old soldiers have to stick together,” he explained.

“Where is...” Leon struggled his way to sitting, “The king, Merlin, Gaius; Percival?”

“The king is in his chambers.”

“Is he alright?” Leon said, trying to come further upright. Gwaine’s hand restrained him.

“I wish I knew,” the other knight admitted. “He is in his chambers and hasn’t woken since the battle. Gaius and Merlin are with him now.”

“But he lives?” Fatigue washed over Leon.

“He lives,” Gwaine agrees.

Leon lay back. “You did not mention Percival. I haven’t seen him. Did he..?”

“Percival is alive and whole,” Gwaine promised. He smiled. “Maybe not as pretty as he was before,” he chuckled. “But he still looks a lot better than you, one-eye.”

“That’s not...” Leon groaned, “even funny.”

Gwaine smirked. “It’s a little funny.”

“You would know, Ser Hopalot,” Leon replied. His lips, bruised and split as they were, twitched.

Gwaine snorted, tried to stifle it.

A small, breathy laugh escaped Leon. “Ow,” he giggled.

That seemed to break Gwaine. He flopped heavily into the palate beside Leon and laughed. “Ah, fuck it all, Leon,” he said, “how did we end up here?”

“We followed Arthur into the fire,” Leon explained.

“That we did. And we won.”

“We won,” Leon agreed. “Who would have ever thought that winning could hurt so much?” He lifted his hand to the broken half of his face, traced the long, puckered line of the cut that split his right cheek. It was still damp from where Gwaine had been cleansing it. The rough catch of his own fingers made Leon wince, but he pressed hard against the swollen eyelid, harder than any other but he could dare. Gwaine stared at him, mouth held open with a silent question, brow drawn together with confusion. Leon studied Gwaine’s face, the lines of strain and fatigue etched on it. As he did, he felt something stir beneath his fingertips. He gasped.

“Leon, what is it?” Gwaine said, leaning in and taking Leon’s free hand urgently.

“My eye,” Leon said. “It’s still there.”

Gwaine’s smile split his face wide with unconcealed joy. His eyes gleamed. “That is good news,” he said.

Leon felt his own mouth move, trying to match Gwaine’s grin. One side complied more readily than the other, but he tried all the same. He needed it and, somehow, he knew Gwaine needed it as well. His hand in Gwaine’s, he squeezed. “Will you let Percival know - when you see him - that I would like him to visit?” he asked.

Gwaine nodded. He hobbled to his feet, reaching for the stick he used to walk, huffing and puffing until he was steady. “I will,” he promised. “But I have barely seen him since we got back to the castle.” He took a tentative step, turned. “I’m worried about him Leon. He came back from the battle changed.”

“We all did,” Leon said.

Gwaine shook his head. “It’s different with Perci. He’s training, all the time. He doesn’t eat with any of us, his bed never seems to be slept in.” His tongue slid nervously along his lip. “To be honest, I worry more for him than I do for either of us,” he said. “I just don’t know what I can do for him.”

Leon wriggled in amid his covers. “Be his friend,” he advised. “As you are to all of us.”

“Be well, Leon,” Gwaine said. His voice was tight, and not just with the strain of supporting his weight on but one leg.

“Be well, my friend,” Leon replied.

 

****

Gaius took off his spectacles with a weary sigh and starred blurrily at the genealogy in his lap. If only it _were_ a genealogy. Genealogies usually stated who begat whom, a basic description of the offspring, where they stood in any family hierarchy. This was far more than that. It was a _history_ , a generational autobiography kept in many hands. The early pages spoke of a time before records were even supposed to have been kept; of the great gathering, the finding of the dragon egg deep within the bowels of the Earth. It told of the man who called it forth - the first Dragonlord, the beginning of a line that ran in an unbroken chain down through the ages until it came to end with the name Uther. An Uther who was of the Pen-y-ddraig blood: a boy who was supposed to have died in his fifteenth year. A boy who would, among so many other things, one day rule an entire kingdom and take to himself the name Pendragon.

This book, which had been sealed within a locked box, in the deepest, darkest vault of Camelot, was the truth. And that made it perhaps the most dangerous thing that Gaius had ever held in his hands. Uther’s heritage - Arthur’s heritage - was even more illustrious, and terrible, than Gaius had ever dared suppose. In many ways, he wished he had never opened the pages of the tome. And as selfish as it seemed, it was not for Arthur’s sake that Gaius worried. It was not even the knowledge that, should but a single page of this history flutter unseen to the ground, the entire kingdom could fall. Gaius was thinking of one person: the idiot boy who even now was laid as still as death on the bed before him, holding the hand of the other damn idiot boy to whom his life was entangled. Gaius knew that, above all others, Merlin could not be allowed to gain possession of the book.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and then rubbing his eyes, Gaius put his glasses back on. It was a long study, of which Gaius had only just begun. The early evening light flooded through the window of Arthur’s bedroom. It was a red sky, stained by the setting sun. Down in the courtyard, he could hear the guard changing.

Merlin suddenly jerked, both hands flying up to cover his face. He thrashed and twisted and then sat bolt upright. Gaius hurried to his side.

“It’s alright, Merlin,” he soothed. Despite all the ruckus, Arthur had not even stirred. Gaius took Merlin’s arms and guided them down, he saw the wild-eyed look of confusion in the other man’s eyes. “You’re home, you’re safe.” He withdrew his hands and looked at them. Faint traces of blood smeared on his skin. He looked at Merlin’s arms - his thin jacket was torn and scarlet pinpricks revealed inexplicable scratches beneath.

Merlin looked at Arthur. “What happened?” he asked.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Gaius replied. He stroked Merlin’s hair, calming him. “You let go of his hand,” he explained.

Slowly, Merlin nodded. “I tried to get him to see what he was and to know that he wasn’t alone. That people... love him.”

“Why would you do that?” Gaius snapped. He immediately regretted his tone.

“Because you said... Arthur’s greatest strength was love.”

“I said that one Pendragon’s strength was love, for the other it was his weakness. Arthur has hardly had the best of experiences with love.”

“But you surely can’t have meant that _Uther’s_ strength came from love? Don’t forget, Gaius, I met that man, I saw what he could do. He didn’t understand what love is.”

“You were acquainted with Uther Pendragon for only a few years. The man he was, the man he should have been...” Gaius sighed, staring at the book laid closed on the table where he left it. He shook his head. “If only you knew,” he said quietly. He broke away from his thoughts, the memories of time long past. “Come, we should get back to our chambers. We are both in need of a hot meal and a good rest, and we have other patients to attend to. You have done all you can for Arthur today.”

Merlin glanced hesitantly at Arthur. “Will he be alright?” he asked.

Gaius nodded. “He’s strong yet, do not fear.” As he and Merlin left the Royal apartments, he turned to a guard. “I want one of you to check on the king at hourly intervals. Should there be _any_ change in his condition, I want to be informed.” The guard nodded, and Gaius saw Merlin’s shoulders loosen a little. “Come, my boy,” he said to Merlin. “Let us not tarry in this draughty corridor.”

****

Ygraine’s hands were like fire on his skin. He pushed her into the darkness of a doorway, felt her body; long and lean against his. Her mouth pushed so fiercely against his that it was sure to bruise. Uther moved his lips over her chin, down her long, white neck, to the slight swell of her petite breasts; mouthing over the silk of her gown. Her fingers ran through his hair as she writhed against him.

“If... the bastard... caught us... you would... die.” They never referred to the king by any other name but ‘Bastard’ when they were together.

Uther broke from kissing her chest. “Some things are worth dying for,” he swore.

This thing between them, the inevitable calling of their minds; their bodies; their very _souls_ , had only been able to be answered in stolen moments like this. Kissing, touching, trying to forget for a time that what they wanted could never be, not so long as the Bastard lived. Seven months they had been like this, it felt to Uther more like seven years - seven lifetimes. When he wasn’t with Ygraine he _hurt_.

“We are dying by inches every time we do this,” Ygraine countered. She nipped at his lip and, as he turned his head to escape her teeth, his ear. He ached for her, but it was not the place to try and find their peace in each other. There was never time, there were always guards, soldiers, even the Bastard himself suddenly appearing on the pretence of wanting to discuss trade agreements or military strategy. Uther was the Bastard’s ‘most trusted advisor’. He didn’t entirely disbelieve the claim, but it did not stop the fact that spies reported his every move within the walls of Castle Hwrlic; who he spoke to, where he went, what time he visited the latrine. On the few occasions he did manage to slip the watchers and find his way unseen to Ygraine, it was never enough to manage more than they already were. Indeed, from the end of the hall, he heard hurried feet rushing towards them.

“They will be upon us soon,” he growled.

“I know,” she replied. She kissed him lightly on the mouth, her fingers stroking his beard, teasing the bristles. “I love you, Uther,” she said.

Uther’s heart felt like it was trying to escape from his chest, just to be closer to hers. They had never before said those dangerous words, as much as Uther knew them to be true. “I love you too,” he promised.

Ygraine smiled. He turned as she slipped through the door. In that instant, soldiers rounded the corner.

“Lord Pendragon, the king wishes to see you,” the fore-guard said. The pike in his hand gleamed dangerously.

Uther brushed his clothing straight, cleansing sweat from his palms. He could still taste Ygraine on his lips. “Then take me to him. I would not wish to keep his highness waiting.”

~~~~

“Ah, my Lord Pendragon!” the Bastard King crowed as Uther entered the throne room.

“You summoned me, Sire.”

The Bastard King made a big show of thoughtfulness and then clapped his hands. “Why yes I did!” he agreed. “It is time for another of your lessons in statecraft.”

“Really, Sire, you need not put yourself out for me,” Uther said, his voice a flat, unreadable monotone.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” the Bastard King replied. He waved away the small entourage that were gathered around him; scantily clad men and women, three fools mock sword-fighting with turnips, a minstrel plucking half-heartedly at his lire. They all bowed and took their leave, leaving Uther and the Bastard King alone in the audience chamber, alone except for the ever-present archer in the rafters that was.

“Today,” the Bastard drawled, “We are going to look at the law. Begin by reciting the law pertaining to Knights.”

Uther sighed. The Bastard seemed hell-bent on trying to indoctrinate him in what he called ‘the art of statesmanship’. And as a ‘guest’ of the king, he had very little choice in obeying his wishes. For now, his people were at peace, they had food and land to call their own. And there was Ygraine. If Uther left, he would have to leave her and that he could not do.

“The law pertaining to Knights states that they must come from a noble house of at least three generations or in possession of more than three thousand acres of land. They cannot hold, nor be the direct successor to a lordly title. They must display mastery in at least three forms of offensive weaponry and have killed a man in combat.”

“Indeed. Well done, Uther. And what is the punishment for impersonating a Knight?”

“Impersonating a Knight is high treason and the offender must be put to death.”

A dangerous half-smile crept on to the Bastard’s face. “It is good to know you understand,” he said.

He clapped once more. Guards dragged in the struggling, bloodied forms of Timmin and Domitius into the throne room. Uther made a move towards them, a curse on his lips. Soldiers held him back.

“Timmin and Domitius Golwydd,” the Bastard recited tonelessly, “You have both been found guilty of impersonating Knights and in accordance with the laws of this land, and the agreement of the six kingdoms, you are sentenced to death. Immediately.”

A burly guard impaled both Timmin and Domitius with a single, fierce thrust of his pike. Uther watched their eyes turn glassy and the life drain from them. “Damn you, Bastard!” he shouted. He struggled but the guards held him fast. The Bastard got from his throne and descended the dais in slow, deliberate steps. At the bodies of Uther’s two fallen comrades, he crouched and dabbled his fingers in the blood puddling on the stones. He crossed to Uther and smeared his gored fingers on each cheek. Uther did all he could do; he spat upon the Bastard. The Bastard laughed.

“Now to continue your lesson,” he said, “we will talk about trust.”

“You would talk of _trust_?” Uther demanded.

“Indeed. I do not like the time you have been spending with my wife.”

“Your _sister_ ,” Uther countered. “If you wish to discuss the law, what of the law of hand-fasting? That it must be done willingly, as the union of body, mind and soul, and it must not be between any of closer relation than cousin?”

The Bastard slapped Uther’s face with the back of his hand, a sudden, unexpectedly convulsive violence. Uther had never seen the Bastard strike a man with his own hand. His bright eyes suggested he enjoyed it. He licked his lips.

“Within this kingdom, the law simply states that if a man wishes to take a woman for his wife, he may do so,” he explained. “I changed the law when I became king. This is something you fail to appreciate, Uther.” His voice was the patronising tone of an ignorant adult to a child. “The law is what those of us in power make it. Scribe!” He shouted, returning to his throne, wiping his bloodied fingers on his cloak.

A scribe hurried to him.

“I, Haldor du Bois, son of Belthin du Bois, King of Hwrlic and associated lands, do this day declare that the Knight’s code now allows for common people to be raised into its ranks at the discretion of a landed Lord as an emergency in a time of war.”

He gestured at the corpses of Timmin and Domitius. “Let us hope that that is the last time such an ugly thing must be done to loyal, brave men,” he said.

Bile rose in Uther’s throat. The hands on him spoke of a readiness to break the king’s words in a heartbeat. “Let’s,” Uther agreed through gritted teeth.

The Bastard waved his hand. “Let him go,” he said. The guards unhanded Uther but did not move far from him.

“And so now you understand trust,” he said. “I will trust you to discontinue meeting with my wife, and you will trust me.”

“I will trust you with _what_ ,” Uther sneered. His friends lay in a tangled mess of limbs by his side.

The Bastard laughed and beckoned him forwards. Uther shouldered past a guard and ascended the dais. 

“Closer,” the Bastard said.

Uther moved to a few steps before him.

“Closer,” the Bastard repeated with a sickly smile.

Uther stepped closer. Suddenly, the Bastard’s hand flew out. He grasped Uther’s tunic and dragged him forward, bringing them cheek to cheek. “You will trust me, because my spies in Camelot have told me a very interesting story. You will trust me because I know who you _really_ are, Uther of the Pen-y-ddraig. You will trust me not to send word that you are alive to those who would still see you dead.”

Dread filled Uther. Tears sparked in his eyes. The Bastard turned his head and met Uther’s gaze. Suddenly, he pressed his hard lips to Uther’s. Uther froze. The Bastard lingered for a moment before he shoved Uther away. Unbalanced and in shock, Uther fell back, down the dais, and came to rest upon the bodies of his friends. Timmin’s cold hand was outstretched. Uther took it briefly and said a silent prayer.

“Leave me,” the king commanded. “And have someone take these traitors’ bodies to be burned,” he said.

Uther found himself pulled to his feet. He could barely feel the hands that held him. He looked at Timmin and Domitius for a last time. He bowed stiffly and hurried from the audience chamber, determined to find Gorlois and Aegan, if they too had not yet fallen in his name.


	5. Chapter 5

“I think you are now well enough to be moved to your room,” Gaius said as he concluded his examination of Leon.

Leon smiled, or at least it looked like that was what he was trying to do. The traumatised muscles of his right cheek managed only a grim sneer. “Thank you, Gaius,” he said. “As much as I appreciate all you have done for me, I miss my own bed.”

Gaius patted his hand. “Of that, I have no doubt,” he said. “Sleep now, and I will arrange for you to be transferred there in the morning.”

Leon nodded and sank back into the cot.

Gaius crossed to the fire, where Merlin was boiling some water. The younger man’s arms were bared, his jacket would need the attention of a seamstress, and the shallow scratches stood out against his pale skin.

Merlin took the tureen from the flames. Gaius sat beside him. He dabbed some linen into the hot water and gave it a moment to cool before stroking it over the first of the scratches.

Merlin hissed. “Ow,” he grumbled.

“Tell me what you saw,” said Gaius in a low voice, continuing to bathe the wounds.

“It was... Arthur. Arthur as he is now,” Merlin explained. 

“That is a good sign,” Gaius replied, “it means he is remembering who, and when, he is.”

Merlin nodded. “He asked me if he should legalise magic.”

“That’s no surprise,” said Gaius, refolding the linen to a clean side, “Arthur needs reassurance, he cannot bear to think that he is something unlawful. That is perhaps a greater fear for him even than possessing magic.”

Merlin caught Gaius by the wrist, stilling his motions and forcing him to look into his eyes. In them, Gaius saw himself reflected. “It is not just that. He wanted _me _to tell him he was right to repeal Uther’s laws. Me. He said...”__

__Gaius quirked his eyebrow._ _

__“He said that I was his most trusted advisor,” Merlin concluded shiftily. His eyes flickered away briefly, finding a sudden interest in the state of the hangings._ _

__“And what did you advise?” Gaius asked after a suitable pause._ _

__Merlin sighed, refocusing his gaze on Gaius. “I told him ‘yes’, of course.”_ _

__“Did you directly say that?”_ _

__“Well... maybe not in as many words. I tried to make him see that his magic is not to be feared.”_ _

__“And I assume that that did not succeed.”_ _

__Merlin hung his head. “He blew in a window, that’s how I got these.” He lifted his arm. “Remember these?”_ _

__“I see,” Gaius said. He finished cleaning the cuts before he spoke again. “You have to remember, Merlin,” he said quietly, “that you are not dealing with Arthur’s physical form. You are walking in his mind, touching the deepest parts of his soul. All that you see _is_ Arthur. He is both a frightened little boy and the man in need of a friend’s reassurance. Trying to appeal to his logic may not be enough, you need to match his fears with faith, to mirror his trust with trust, truth with truth.”_ _

__“Love with love?” Merlin whispered._ _

__Gaius smiled._ _

__Merlin cleared his throat. Gaius thought he saw his cheeks pink a little, although it was difficult to tell with the already-reddened skin from his first encounter with Arthur’s mind. “So, um...” Merlin began evasively, “have you learned any more from the book? Anything I can use to guide him through this? I think that knowing his father’s place in all this would help him come to terms with it.”_ _

__Gaius shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it is as I told you - Uther came from a line long known to have magical talent but had his connection to magic broken. He fled into the wilds and joined a people then known as the Gollwyds, who came from the old land of Hwrlic to the west.”_ _

__“It’s a long way from some backwater tribe to the King of Camelot,” Merlin observed._ _

__Gaius pursed his lips. “It is,” he agreed. “But it was in Hwrlic that Uther met Ygraine.”_ _

__“His wife?”_ _

__“The wife of another, at that time,” Gaius corrected. “Their love was great, Merlin, yet his path was a bloody one. Uther spent many lives to claim his throne.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “It is a wonder that so many would follow him so readily. It is almost as if..._ _

__“If _what?”_ asked Merlin._ _

__“Hmm?” Gauis said, lifting his head. He smiled reassuringly. “Oh, nothing. It is just conjecture. I need more time to study the book if I am to say for sure.”_ _

__Merlin frowned. “Why do I get the feeling that you are hiding something from me, Gaius?”_ _

__Gaius sat back on his chair. He stretched his legs before him, warming himself by the fire. “Merlin,” he said quietly, “The king has magic. What greater secret could there possibly be?”_ _

__****_ _

__The sound of urgent knocking on the door to the apothecary had Merlin to his feet and out of the door to his small room within the beat of a heart. Leon, too, who had been trained for a lifetime to come awake and alert at the slightest noise (excluding the snoring of his fellow knights) tried to perform an action his body was not yet ready for. He fell back heavily in his cot with a rare, potent curse._ _

__“What is it?” Gaius called, offering his arm to Merlin to assist him._ _

__The main door to the chambers flew open. A soldier stood silhouetted in the sconce-light behind. “It is the king,” the soldier said._ _

__Gaius hobbled forward. He was already gathering his equipment. He might be slower of movement than Merlin, but he was quicker of mind._ _

__“Is he awake?” Merlin asked._ _

__“You must come quickly,” the soldier said. His voice was tight with concern._ _

__Gaius crossed to the man, taking him by the arms and looking him square in the face. “Tell me what is wrong. Does he have a fever, or sweating..?”_ _

__“H... his breathing,” the soldier said. “We checked on him at three of the clock and all was well, but by four, he sounding like...” The guard attempted to mimic a wheezing, sobbing noise._ _

__“Lungwort,” Gauis ordered, “and bladderweed, ephedra...”_ _

__Merlin busied himself collecting the ingredients. He also took one of the vials of sleeping potion with him, sealing it all together in Gaius’s medicine case. Gaius was already on his way. Merlin squeezed Leon’s shoulder, attempting to comfort the worried-looking man. “Try to go back to sleep,” he advised. “Gaius and I will do everything we can for him.”_ _

__“I know,” Leon said. He patted Merlin’s hand and nodded for him to leave._ _

__~~~~_ _

__Merlin caught up with Gaius in the corridor. The soldier marched a few paces ahead, his sword half-drawn as if the shadows themselves might pose a threat._ _

__“You said he was okay,” Merlin hissed._ _

__“I said his body was strong, I cannot comment on his state of mind.”_ _

__“And you think this shows that his mind is deteriorating?”_ _

__“I think we should reserve judgement until we have examined him,” Gaius cautioned. Despite the steadiness of his words, the older man redoubled his pace._ _

__~~~~_ _

__It was no small job for Merlin to assure the guard to remain outside the Royal chambers. In the background, he could hear Gaius speaking softly to himself as he examined Arthur. Finally, he convinced the soldier that his duty was to keep people from disturbing them, and that being stood outside the door was fundamental to that._ _

__Crossing to Arthur’s bed, he looked first at Gaius and then bent, placing his ear to Arthur’s chest. It rose and fell raggedly._ _

__“He’s crying,” he said as he straightened. Gaius nodded. Merlin wiped the back of his finger under Arthur’s eyes; indeed, it came away damp. “What does it mean?” he asked in hushed tones._ _

__“It means, my boy,” said Gaius, “that you will not be sleeping in your own bed for the rest of this night.”_ _

__Merlin nodded. He required no further instruction to climb onto Arthur’s bed beside him. Gaius brought the potion to his lips, its sweet, sticky nectar slipping down his throat. Merlin took Arthur’s hand._ _

__“Try to remember,” Gaius said, his voice sounding dull and distant, like words in fog, “that Arthur cannot hide in his mind, and you should not try to either.” With the final threads of conscious thought, Merlin turned his head to see the profile of the king set against the creeping light of dawn. He tipped his head forward, resting his brow against Arthur’s cheek, and let the potion carry him away._ _

__****_ _

__Uther glanced one last time over his shoulder. Although the steep, winding streets of Hwrlic town were a maze that could fool even a rat, he did not suppose that he had lost his watchers on his way through them. Not that it mattered, once he was inside this tawdry, ramshackle building before him, the eyes could not follow. It was an establishment that operated a ‘patrons only’ policy, and patrons were not chosen from the ranks of the guards. It was one of the few places in the city that was in any way, shape or form, safe for Uther._ _

__It was, in fact, a whorehouse._ _

__Uther frequenting a brothel would no doubt please the Bastard King. While he was getting his ‘sport’ elsewhere, he would assume that Uther’s eye had wandered. Indeed, the king often sent him beautiful serving girls to wait on him and to provide whatever services he required. It was of benefit to Lord and servant alike to let the king believe that those services had been provided. Uther also drank heavily in the presence of the king, to give the impression of a man who had been broken, one who had come to accept his role of caged bird. But Uther’s heart and head were always clear; always studying, planning, finding places to meet Gorlois and Aegan beyond the watch of wary eyes and, most of all, ever true to Ygraine’s love._ _

__He pushed open the door to _The Blooming Rose_. The smell of the place assailed him. If hope could smell of sweat and sex and a thousand perfumes, then anything was possible. Gorlois greeted him. He had two bawdy, blonde wenches draped over him._ _

__“Hail, Uther!” he cried, raising his pottle in greeting._ _

__“Gorlois. You seem comfortable,” Uther remarked. “How long have you been here?”_ _

__Gorlois smiled. “Long enough,” he said. “You think the mistress of _The Rose_ would agree to this plan without a little gold being spent?”_ _

__“So long as that is all that is being spent,” cautioned Uther. “You are one of my Knights after all.”_ _

__“Ach, Uther,” Gorlois scolded, “were it not for me having _selflessly_ given over my honour to every tavern and cathouse in Hwrlic, you would not have found the perfect place to conduct your secret affairs, would you?”_ _

__Uther frowned. Despite how true it might be, he disliked the necessity to use such a place as this. “Will you leave us?” he asked of the women._ _

__The women kissed Gorlois, one to each cheek. The more buxom of the two trailed her hand along his strong forearm, honed through many years of drawing a bowstring and bearing a sword. Her eyes flashed a wicked chestnut before she went to find a more pliable plaything._ _

__“I wonder if she is blonde all over,” mused Gorlois, rubbing his dark, wiry stubble._ _

__“I wonder that you don’t know that already,” Uther replied._ _

__Gorlois chuckled dryly. “Believe it or not, Uther, I did not come here to sate my needs. I came to caution you on this course of action.”_ _

__“It is too late,” Uther said. “My choice has been made and word sent to the castle.”_ _

__“But what if the Bastard knows about the secret tunnels?”_ _

__“Then all this will have been in vain and I will die. But I will die with _her_.”_ _

__Gorlois sighed. “Who would think to find love in a whorehouse?” he said. His voice was wistful and his eyes unconsciously flicked to the girl serving drinks behind the counter. She was a pretty creature, with long hair the colour of honeyed mead, petite features and serious eyes that ever seemed downcast. Despite Uther’s own concerns, the look on his friend’s face was unmistakeable._ _

__“You have fallen for a woman who works in a brothel?” he asked incredulously._ _

__Gorlois’s eyes flashed indignantly. “She does not _work_ in a brothel, in the way that you mean it. Her name is Marjoram, she is the daughter of druids killed by bandits. An orphan,” he said, with a small, cautious laugh. “A fitting woman for a Gollwyd.”_ _

__“A druid?” Uther questioned. “You mean she has magic?”_ _

__“Aye, a little,” Gorlois replied. “Of the healing form, mostly. Imagine what a wife with such power in her hands could do for a man.”_ _

__Uther gritted his teeth. “I want nothing to do with magic,” he growled._ _

__Gorlois clapped a hand to his shoulder and, with the other, poured a second goblet of wine. “No-one ever said you had to,” he said, his voice deliberately light. “We may share much, Uther, but never a woman.”_ _

__Uther forced himself to relax. He took the wine Gorlois had poured. “I will drink to that,” he said. Gorlois raised the bottle in cheer and supped straight from it alongside Uther._ _

__The owner of the establishment, a matronly looking woman called Beverly who seemed more of a baker’s wife than a brothel-mistress, bustled into the main room. “I am sorry we weren’t given more time to prepare for your arrival, my lady,” she was saying, “but I swear by my head that the room I have prepared for you is as clean as clean can be.”_ _

__Uther’s eye moved past the woman, to the tall, cloaked figure behind her. It threw back its hood. “Uther, my love,” Ygraine cried, throwing back her hood. Her chalcedony eyes staring into his and he was on his feet before he could even think, wrapped in her embrace. She was kissing his cheeks, his eyes, the scar that ran along his forehead. It seemed so long since they had been together, not daring to snatch even what moments they had after the Bastard’s dire warning._ _

__“You are sure you were not followed?” he asked urgently._ _

__“Oh, she’ll not’ve been followed,” Beverly said sagely. “Old King Belthin had that tunnel put in in absolute secret, Gods rest his soul.”_ _

__“The old king?” Uther asked, gathering Ygraine to him and holding her about the waist; not wanting to let her go._ _

__“How else do you think he’d father a bastard?” asked Beverly, her mouth twitching into a grin that straightened as quickly as it came. “If you will forgive me for saying, my lady,” she added._ _

__“You did no wrong,” Ygraine said. “My father chose his path.”_ _

__“Wait,” said Gorlois, his hand was on the hilt of his sword. “You are saying the Bastard’s mother was one of your women? You did not mention that before.”_ _

__“Because it did not matter,” Beverly said, calmly eyeing the large man before her. “As soon as the King found out she was bearing his child, he pensioned her off to an estate in the upper town. The Bastard never came near this place.”_ _

__“And what if she told him of how she and his father met?” demanded Gorlois._ _

__Beverly sighed the weary sigh of a woman speaking to a man or - in other words - an idiot. “I know she did not because she died before the child came to the age of understanding, leaving him to be raised by servants appointed by the king. Servants, if I may add, that came to believe their lot would be made better should their little ward one day inherit the crown. It was certainly not in their interest to remind him that he was the son of a whore.”_ _

__“It is true, Uther,” Ygraine said, laying a hand to his chest. “It is treason to even speak of the Bastard’s mother. He knows nearly nothing of her.”_ _

__“This is to your satisfaction _Ser_ Gorlois?” Beverly asked with a sarcastic sneer._ _

__Gorlois frowned. “It will do, woman,” he said, slumping back into his seat. “Have me brought more wine.”_ _

__Beverly smiled knowingly and gestured for the maid Marjoram to attend to him. “And you two will wish for your privacy, no doubt,” she asked of Ygraine and Uther._ _

__Uther nodded and took Ygraine’s hand, following the brothel-mistress to a room on the second floor of the building. It was quite bare but for a sumptuous bed, dressed all in white linens; as pure as snow._ _

__“It isn’t as fancy as you are likely used to,” Beverly grumbled._ _

__“It is perfect,” Ygraine replied. She touched the brothel-mistress’s arm. “Thank you.”_ _

__The old woman’s eyes lifted. “My lady,” she said, the honorific given without reservation._ _

__The door was barely closed before Ygraine was on him, a flurry of touching, and kissing and an out pouring of desperate need. They did not waste breath even to speak as they hurriedly stripped one another of clothing. At her underdress, Ygraine, pushed Uther back on to the bed and stood before him at its foot. She slipped the simple, white shift over her shoulders, letting it fall to her waist. Uther was fascinated by the shine of her skin, the slight curves, every single feature of her. He did not care that she was technically another’s, nor that she was some years his elder. She was perfection; she was _his_ , and he was hers. Her eyes trailed over his body. He was quite sure there was nothing that could entice such interest; just the marks of small injuries gained in battle._ _

__She set her mouth into a hard line and took a deep breath. Her ribs rippled beneath her skin like silk over steel. She allowed her shift to fall to her feet._ _

__Uther stared at her, his mouth slightly parted in shock. She watched him watch her with apprehension and unshed tears in her eyes._ _

__Between her narrow hips, just below her navel and a little to the left, a circular welt of red scarring stood out angrily against her porcelain skin. It was obviously an old wound, declaring where a blade had once not just been thrust, but twisted._ _

__Uther scrambled from the bed. Ygraine took a step back, as if ready to flee. He caught her and fell to his knees, his thumbs pressed to the jut of her hips. “Oh, my sweet,” he said, hearing the tears in his own voice. He stroked the taught skin, felt her pulse flutter and the trembling of her muscles. He kissed her stomach and rested his cheek against the scar._ _

__“I will kill him,” said Uther, his voice so low and strained as to be barely recognisable. “The Bastard will die by my hands, I swear it Ygraine.”_ _

__She stroked his hair softly, her long fingers running though, gently smoothing the tangles. “Then you would be king,” she said, barely above a whisper._ _

__“And you would be my Queen,” he replied._ _

__She knelt with him, kissing his fingers and then guiding them to her body. “Lie with me, Uther,” she said. “There will be time for killing. Now is a time for love.”_ _

__He nodded. They had time, all the time: an entire _lifetime_ to be together. It was the Bastard who need count his hours now._ _


	6. Chapter 6

It was dark. Well, it wasn’t _dark_ dark, but Merlin checked his eyes anyway. They were open. He waited for them to grow accustomed to the gloom. 

He appeared to be in a cell in the deep dungeons of Camelot, where no shaft of natural light had ever spilled itself. A single, meagre torch guttered and spat at the far end of the corridor, on the other side of a locked grate.

A heap of sack-cloth on the floor by Merlin’s feet shifted. He jumped. Eyes flashed out from its depths; starry points veiled in black.

“It is you.” It was Arthur’s voice, but hoarse as though strained from much shouting.

“Arthur!” cried Merlin. He crouched by the king’s side. Arthur did not protest or even move as Merlin pushed the swaddling back from his face. He sucked in a sharp breath at what was revealed. Arthur’s face was gaunt, his high cheekbones standing brittle beneath haggard eyes. He was filthy, his skin caked with dirt and broken with sores. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur’s gaze flickered from his, achingly hopeless. “This is where I deserve to be. This is the only place I can be sure not to hurt anyone.”

“So you know that you have magic?” Merlin asked.

Arthur nodded. He licked his cracked and crusted lips. “I don’t understand it, but I _know_.”

“And you think you deserve to be _punished_ for it?”

A shaky sob escaped Arthur. “The law states that anyone practicing magic within the borders of Camelot should be put to death.” Merlin took Arthur’s cheek in his hand, using the heel of his palm to lift Arthur’s chin, bringing their eyes together. Arthur stared deep into him, into a part of Merlin’s soul that felt like eternity; something that could never begin and could therefore never end. “So why,” Arthur whispered, “do I keep wondering whether I could have saved my men had I known of it before?”

The sheer plaintive pleading of this man who was always so brave gouged Merlin’s heart. “No-one can know what could have been,” he said. “You are not to blame for those who fell.”

“My father would not have been as understanding as you,” Arthur replied bitterly. “ _A king must accept that men live or die by his decisions_ ,” he intoned. “And he would certainly not have understood his son using magic to end a battle. He would have been the first to put me here.”

Merlin shook his head. “Whatever else Uther was or did, he _loved_ you Arthur. He knew that this moment could come. He might even have had magic _himself_ , if...”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Arthur said sharply. “All of my life, my father fought against magic.”

“But what about the time _before_ your life, Arthur?” Merlin said softly. “What about where he came from; his youth; the time he had with your mother before you were born?”

“My father rarely spoke of my mother,” Arthur quietly admitted. “I believed... I used to think it was because he blamed me for her death.”

Merlin brought his other hand under Arthur’s jaw, cupping his face, the tips of his fingers weaving into the dirty blond lengths of Arthur’s hair. “I know this is hard for you, Arthur, truly I do.”

Arthur’s answering laugh was full of resentment. “What could you possibly know about it?”

Their faces were so close that the air they shared between them was hot with their mutual breaths. “I know,” Merlin said quietly, his eyes stinging with moisture. _Trust with trust, truth with truth. “Leoht, hiersumaþ me_ ,” he whispered. He saw the amber flash of the enchantment echo in the blue of Arthur’s eyes. Suddenly, the room was bathed in light; soft blue light that coalesced into floating orbs like delicate suns.

“No,” Arthur whispered.

“I have magic. Like you,” Merlin said.

“This cannot be.” Arthur turned his head, huddling back against the lime-streaked wall.

“It is the truth, Arthur,” Merlin said.

“No!” Arthur repeated more forcefully. The sack-cloth covers fell away and the manacles binding Arthur’s bruised wrists and bare ankles rattled. “Leave me!” he demanded.

“Arthur...”

“Get out!” It was a bellow that made the stones themselves shiver. The torch at the end of the hall swallowed itself in flame and came hurtling at Merlin.

“Scildan!” Merlin cried, lifting his hand towards the fireball. It burst against the glimmering shield of liquid energy before him. Suddenly, his legs were gone from under him, Arthur abandoning magic in favour of his training as a warrior. The ground seemed to take forever to rise up to meet him, Merlin closed his eyes against the inevitable crash. It was dark. He was still falling.

“Merlin.”

Merlin tried to answer. His lips moved but his mind was a fog; a deep numbness spread from his forehead.

“Merlin!”

He could barely think. The darkness had crept into every part of him. But the voice was urgent, insistent. It demanded action, but he was still falling and there was nothing to hold onto.

“ _Merlin_!”

Merlin twisted, trying to find a purchase. The grey outlines of hands resolved around him, they were outstretched, searching. “Help me!” he cried, thrashing against the emptiness, trying to reach them. He _felt_ them. His eyes flew open. Gaius’s lined face, sagging with concern, loomed into view for a second before Merlin was gathered by the physician’s strong hands and almost crushed by his embrace.

“Thank the Gods,” he heard the old man whisper. “I thought you were lost as well.”

Merlin blinked. He was tired in a way that even the long troubles of the battle and its aftermath could not manage to match. Bright sunlight streamed through the window. It made his head swim. 

“Lost?” he said blearily. “I was just with Arthur, in his cell. He’s chained up, it looks like he’s been that way for days...” Merlin reeled, swaying on the mattress. 

“Slow down, my boy,” Gaius cautioned. “Here, drink this.”

Merlin took several deep gulps of the water Gaius passed to him. The spinning of the room started to abate. “Arthur has imprisoned himself in his mind. He knows that he has magic and he blames himself for the losses in the battle. I told him what you told me. I let him see that he isn’t alone.”

“You told him you have magic, didn’t you?” Gaius asked, as if he knew the answer already.

Merlin nodded. “He told me to leave him. I refused and when I did, he fought me. Both physically _and_ with magic.”

Gaius nodded gravely. “I felt the power in the room and I feared for you. You let go of his hand, but you and Arthur were still joined at the brow. I couldn’t move you away from him. It was like you were fixed in stone.”

“I’m starting to understand why only the high priestesses performed this ritual,” Merlin grumbled.

Gaius patted his shoulder. “Next time, you will find a way.”

Merlin shook his head. “There isn’t going to be a ‘next time’,” he said sadly. “If I hadn’t shielded myself from him, Arthur would have _killed_ me. Me, Gaius! Just for having magic. I _can’t_ save him; he truly believes that magic is evil. Nothing I say could change his mind now.”

“If you do not try again, the king will surely die,” Gaius said flatly.

“I’m sorry,” said Merlin, tears of frustration burning his eyes. “All this time I have spent using my magic to protect him and now...” he looked down at his palms, remembering the feeling of Arthur’s face held in them, “Now he will die because of it.”

~~~~

Merlin turned and twisted on his cold, narrow bed. Whenever he closed his eyes, Arthur’s cold, accusatory glare stared back. He thought of Arthur in his room, Gaius by his side, trying everything, _anything_ to raise him. He wondered if Arthur’s mind was still in its cell, too afraid to even allow himself to wake. 

It was too much to bear. He covered his face with his pillow and felt it grow warmth with his breath. It brought more memories flooding back. He threw the offending bedding away with a violent shove.

“What more could I do?” he pleaded aloud, knowing there was no-one left to answer him. Even Leon had been moved back to the barracks, settled in amongst the men he had fought beside. The men he could trust. People who would not turn aside from him for fear. But had he not tried everything? Even his greatest secret, the thing that he had held back so many times - for so many years that it made him ache to think of it - he had given to Arthur. And for what? A face full of fireball and a low blow.

He got out of bed and began pacing. His room was exactly three strides long. He had learnt that a long time ago. It hadn’t gotten any bigger since the last time he paced it.

“This is all Uther’s fault,” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t help but feel that if the triple-damned man had not turned on his own; bred the fear of magic into his son; forced his daughter to run into the arms of the dark arts, then none of this would have happened.

‘ _If only you knew_ , said a voice; an echo on the wind. Merlin’s head snapped round, but he was alone. His brow drew together. What if there was more; things that he _didn’t_ know? It was obvious from the grave look of concern he saw on Gaius’s face every time that he studied the tome that there was much more to it than he revealed. _Why_ was beyond Merlin. Surely even the word-bond between friends was not worth a life, and certainly not upon the stricture of a man long-passed through the veil. But Gaius kept the book with him at all times, it was beyond Merlin’s grasp. The whole, unfettered story of Uther’s heritage and his life, just out of reach.

Or was it?

Carefully, Merlin lifted the corner of his mattress. Beneath it, squirreled away, was the spilled vellum he had pilfered unbeknown to Gaius. This single, illicit parchment had remained tucked out of sight since he acquired it; honour keeping it folded but intrigue holding it fast. He knew he should not read it now, but he had done _everything_ else. If he could save Arthur, Gaius would forgive him - as he had many times before. 

Merlin tiptoed to his door and opened it a crack. He did not think that Gaius had returned from the king’s bedside but he had, in truth, not left his room for several hours. The apothecary before him was mercifully empty but flickered with firelight; so much better to study by than Merlin’s own weak candle. He crossed to the bench before the fire and sat on it, his back to the door and shielding his actions from any sudden intrusions, afraid to be caught with this illicit thing. His hands were trembling slightly as he turned the folded, gossamer-like paper over in them. By the fire, he could see vein-like webs weaving through the parchment, like the skeleton of a leaf after a winter’s frost. It looked almost like a part of a living thing, or something that had once lived, at least. It weighed almost nothing as he held it, carefully unfolding it to uncover its contents. Its tissue-thin delicacy meant Merlin was forced to lay it out on the table to avoid damaging it. When he had, he stared down at the contents with confusion.

It was blank, this marvellous thing that held such promise was... nothing; a fragment, a relic.Only a few smudged, sticklike scratches marred its surface, almost hidden to the top right of the page. Long ago, they might have been runes. Merlin bent in to study them more closely. Runes, indeed; only two were still whole. 

“Know... me....” Merlin translated slowly. Know me? He drummed his fingers in an impatient tattoo. Know who? Or what? What did he know about Uther? Well, he was a menace. He was proud. He was suspicious, pig-headed, arrogant... Merlin took a deep breath. He came from magic.

“Min ætywan,” he commanded. Show me.

Nothing happened. Merlin tried a few other enchantments, to no success. He growled in annoyance, a deep, rumbling sound that swelled in his throat like a roar.

“Gnōthi seauton!”

The words burst forth from his mouth unbidden. It was an impossible thing, the language of the Dragons buried deep within Merlin’s blood. There was no way that the Pendragon family history, regardless of how illustrious it might be, would be touched by the beasts.

Slowly, miraculously, and slightly unsettlingly; words began to appear on the page, glowing faintly red against the parchment that seemed to shimmer slightly with living light. 

_The motherless son of magic line, will bring the ending of our time  
He shall defeat the sea and land, then to the sky will turn his hand  
Fear and pain shall mark his deeds, and on his word will fall the creed  
Yet only by the dragon’s breath, may Albion avoid its death._

It was a prophesy: written by no human hand. Merlin read it. And read it again.

And again.

And he _understood._

****

As with all of the best things in life, Uther’s plan had taken a long time to come to fruition. Months had rolled by, months in which Uther listened to all of the Bastard’s advice with a bent knee and a grateful ‘ _my king_ ’, drank every drink that was offered, took every serving wench sent to his chambers in truth. His performance had to be perfect, the king had to believe that Uther was truly now his creature. Ygraine understood. It was Ygraine that had told him what to do. They could not jeopardise the ruse by the loose tongue of a servant.

Uther stood by the right hand of the Bastard King, upon the dais, as he had for these months past. He glanced up casually. There in the rafters was the grey shadow of the archer. The difference that day was that Uther knew the face of the bowman. Aegan crouched above them, his bright eyes shining in the dark. While Gorlois may have been the truer shot of the two, he was also the larger and his distinctive frame risked recognition.

He shifted. The cold bite of steel against his back made Uther shiver with anticipation. It had been an easy thing to sneak the dagger - Berrin’s dagger, which so long ago had sent him along this path - into the throne room. The guards, grown accustomed to his apparent obsequiousness, had become sloppy at searching him before he entered the Royal presence. Today, at long last, Uther would dispatch this Bastard and have Ygraine’s hand. Berrin would be avenged, and justice would be done.

“So, my Lord Pendragon,” the Bastard drawled, his eyes never leaving the scantily-clad dancers before him, “what do you think of the gift I sent you last night?”

“She was very beautiful,” Uther said.

“A little fat for my tastes,” the Bastard replied. “Still, a dog is always grateful for the scraps from his master’s plate, for he knows that what is on the table is not for him.”

“My king is very generous,” Uther replied, through gritted teeth made to look like a smile.

The Bastard laughed. “You do not know how generous,” he said. “I have another surprise for you.”

“A surprise, my king?”

“I will give it to you later,” the Bastard replied smugly.

 _Do not leave it much later_ , thought Uther. 

Their plan was a relatively simple one, but held many dangers. Gorlois should already be in place in the courtyard anteroom, having dispatched the men waiting there. At the appointed time - less than an hour hence, when the Bastard was at his ease - Uther would take his position to cut the king’s throat. Simultaneously, Aegan would shoot the guards: those closest to the Bastard, grown fat under his reign of favours and bribery, and who would defend their master with selfish fervour. And they had their pikes, to which a dagger was little defence. Once the throne room was clear, the three of them would make their escape through the tunnels to _The Blooming Rose_ , where Ygraine was waiting for them. They would wait until the inevitable disturbance had abated, before she claimed the throne as rightfully hers and married Uther. It seemed almost... _dishonest_ to Uther to rise to power in such a way, but all of them agreed that it held the best chance of victory. It was a strategic decision, Ygraine assured him. He just wished it felt less like cowardice.

“The guard brings an interesting case before us today,” the Bastard said, seemingly oblivious to the maelstrom of tension filling Uther. “One in which I think you will have a... unique perspective.”

“Oh, my king?” Uther replied.

The Bastard clapped his hands and the dancers departed. The guard dragged the torn and bloodied form of a woman before them. Her eyes were downcast, but Uther did not need to see them to realise he knew the woman’s face. It was Marjoram, Gorlois’s bound love and waitress at _The Blooming Rose_. Uther’s gut twisted as if a knife had been thrust into it. He looked at this delicate creature so mishandled, a girl he had come to know in her shy, retiring way, and one of the few things that could raise a smile to his friend’s lips.

The Bastard’s sly smirk was not directed at Uther, but he felt it enrage him all the same. “On what charge is she brought before you?” he demanded.

The Bastard did not answer in personal form, he turned it as an address to the entire court. “Marjoram Grenliff, you are charged with assaulting a Captain of my Guard with magic. How say you?”

Marjoram murmured something; she seemed barely able to support herself even with the guards still grasping each of her arms.

“Speak up, harlot,” the king demanded. Slowly, Marjoram lifted her eyes. Both were bruised.

“M... my king,” she stammered. “I was only protecting myself. Your man... he came to my mistress’s place demanding payment of the king’s tax. My mistress said she had paid her taxes in full, but the guard forced his way inside, saying it was not her gold he wished for.” Her eyes flickered pleadingly to Uther. “I... I am but a serving girl...”

“Sire,” Uther interrupted, “it is clear what this despicable Captain tried to take from this woman. It should be _him_ upon trial, not her.”

The Bastard swivelled to look at Uther. “You surprise me, Lord Pendragon,” he said, a hint of gloating in his tone. “Have you forgotten that she used _magic_ against Our loyal soldier?”

Uther gritted his teeth. “A man with a sword would have the right to defend himself,” he stated.

The Bastard nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You are right,” he said at last. “Thank you, Uther, for your clarity on this matter. A man would indeed be entitled to defend himself. But this is no man and she bore no sword. My choice is clear.” He turned his attention back to Marjoram. “I, Haldor du Bois, son of Belthin du Bois, King of Hwrlic and associated lands, do this day declare that it is a crime for any woman to raise magic against a man within the borders of the realm. Such an offense will be punishable by death by hanging.”

Tears fell from Marjoram’s blood-shot eyes. “My Lord...” she begged, falling to her knees.

“Sire,” Uther said, placing himself between the king and Marjoram, “you cannot do this.”

The bastard laughed. “My Lord Pendragon, you have already learned this lesson. I can do whatever I please.”

“Just because a thing _can_ be done, does not mean it _should_ be done,” Uther countered.

“You would challenge me?” the Bastard asked incredulously.

Uther removed his leather glove and threw it to the ground before him. “I do,” he confirmed. The guard pressed in, their pikes levelled.

 _Now_ , he thought. As if in answer, he heard the notch of an arrow and a bowstring twang.

Pain blossomed through him. He staggered, clutching the arrow embedded in his right shoulder. He fell to his knees before the king and beside Marjoram.

The Bastard stood, looming over him. “Do you _really_ think I would leave watching you to common spies?” he asked, stepping down from the dais. “A man such as you?” He brushed his hand over Uther’s hair, down his cheek, chin and neck, coming to rest at his wounded shoulder. “With your _charms_?” At the final word, the Bastard tore the arrow out of Uther’s shoulder. The world span, Uther felt his stomach heave and he sagged forward onto his hands. He heard the scrabbled sound of someone descending from the rafters and a familiar pair of boots entered his line of vision.

“You... thrice-cursed... traitor,” Uther retched. “Why?” He lifted his watery gaze to Aegan.

Aegan’s face was awash with misery. “I am truly sorry, Uther,” he said, “but the king can offer me something you cannot. Even if you _were_ to become king, everyone knows that you would name Gorlois your successor to the Lordship of the Gollwyds. Haldor has promised to name me as chieftain, and grant our people self-determination as a vassal, rather than subjects of Hwrlic.”

“Fool,” Uther spat. He could barely feel his arm anymore.

“A _wise_ fool,” the Bastard corrected. He crouched beside Uther, his weasel-features set in the mask of victory. He took up Uther’s glove. “I accept your challenge,” he whispered, drawing his sword. It gleamed with the blue light of an edge finely honed. Uther had never seen the Bastard take a blade in his own hand, but he handled it well. The king levelled its point on Uther’s throat. “Arm yourself,” he commanded.

“I have... no weapon,” Uther wheezed. His shirt was slick against his skin with blood.

“I think you are mistaken,” the king countered.

With shaking, numb fingers Uther reached for his knife, bound by a leather strap to his back. He felt for the handle, managed to withdraw it, but fumbled; lacing his own skin. The dagger fell, slicing through his shirt and clattered to the ground at his feet. Uther grasped it with his unpractised, left hand. With great difficulty, he stood and took his guard. “I will still defeat you,” he grunted.

The Bastard met his dagger with a lazy sweep of his sword. The juddering reverberations of steel on steel sent spots before Uther’s eyes. He fought simply to keep hold of the hilt. “Yield now, and I will let you live.”

Uther barked a bleak laugh. “No you won’t,” he replied.

The Bastard smiled. “At least I have taught you something,” he said, and with his final word; pressed the attack.

Uther fought for his life, but with every move his wound tore open afresh. The Bastard King was surprisingly strong but he was slow, hacking from the shoulder like a barbarian. He had no delicacy, no finesse with the sword: it was a blunt instrument with a point, in his hands. It left opportunities that a man with a dagger could exploit. Uther had a dagger, but he had also lost a lot of blood. His own movements were sloppy, his feet leaden. In a strange way, he felt like laughing. A blow from the Bastard sent him skittering into a cluster of soldiers. They pulled and pushed him, cruel fingers dug into his muscles, jagged nails tearing at his skin. They threw him back to the mercy of the Bastard with a raucous call.

“And you thought _you_ could command this kingdom,” the Bastard sneered, spreading his arms wide in challenge.

“Just because... your dogs bark... doesn’t mean the rest will follow.” Uther licked his dry lips. He knew he should not rise to the bait but he had so little breath left in him that caution no longer mattered. He lunged for the Bastard; ducking under a slicing sweep of the his sword. With all of his strength he barrelled into the Bastard: a long blade would mean nothing at such range. He sent his opponent tumbling backwards, falling together. He felt the Bastard’s bones crack, cushioning his own body as they fell awkwardly across the steps of the dais. The man beneath him gasped and choked. His splutterings turned into a gargled laugh as Uther put his knife to his throat.

“You didn’t give me time to tell you... what your surprise is,” the Bastard croaked.

“I want nothing from you,” hissed Uther.

The Bastard coughed, pink spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I would beg to differ,” he said, his wavering voice assuming some of its characteristic smugness. “The Lady Ygraine...”

Uther forced the Bastard’s head back against the stone flags. “What have you done to her?!” he demanded.

“I have sent her beyond your reach, Uther,” the Bastard replied. “To the one place even _you_ dare not go. To her brother, in the court of King Cornaelius of Camelot.” The king arched into him, wracked by a spasm. His eyes no longer looked at Uther, they seemed to stare through him, into the world beyond.

Uther leaned in, so close to the man’s face that his short gasps seemed to be drawn straight from Uther’s lungs. “Does she know, Bastard?” he hissed. “Tell me, does she know who I am?”

The Bastard who had been king sighed, his face resolving into a peaceful, self-satisfied smile. 

The door from the anteroom was flung open, Gorlois stood framed in its arch. He quickly assessed the situation. “What in the hell happened to the plan?” he shouted to the kneeling form of Uther. Marjoram ran to his side, flinging herself into his arms.

Uther’s eyes met Aegan’s. The sheet-white set of the traitor’s lips trembled. “The king is dead,” he began shakily, “Long live the king!” The soldiers who pressed in nervous knots within the throne room stared at each other. Gorlois, his arm around the waist of his love, spoke out; his voice a basso rumble that was amplified by the acoustics of the hall. “The king is dead, long live the king!” A few of the guardsmen joined in. Finally, Uther made it to his feet. Blood thundered in his ears; a rumble that mixed with Gorlois’s chant. Uther raised his voice over it. “The king is dead!” he bellowed, the sound swelling in his throat until it became almost a roar. It silenced the throne room. Every face turned to him.

“Long live the king,” he whispered. A black eddy of nothingness swelled around him and gathered him into its embrace.


	7. Chapter 7

“Rest, Uther,” Gorlois advised. He leant against the wall, his arms folded, watching Uther. The stubborn fool was sat on the edge of his sickbed, attempting to pull his shirt over the large swathe of bandages covering his torso using just his left hand. 

Gorlois knew, as one of the few who did, how close Uther had come to death from the arrow-wound he suffered at the command of the Bastard King. The lesion, as though sensing its own treacherous origin, had festered with frightening speed. A dark, terrible corruption had spread out along Uther’s veins, sending a black spider web creeping across his chest. Had it reached his heart, Uther would have certainly died. As it was, a large portion of his flesh, just above his right breast, had had to be cut away, leaving a gaping hollow which was only now beginning to heal.

“I _have_ rested,” Uther argued, his voice was still a thing made of crackling straw, his breathing affected by his illness. “But there are more important matters than my health.”

“Your kingdom will not fall if you just stay in bed a little longer,” countered Gorlois.

“You think I _care_ about this little patch of ragged turf and sea?!” Uther exclaimed. Gorlois stared at him disapprovingly, his steady, amber eyes not breaking from Uther’s grey-green glare. 

Uther finally looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This land is your home, I understand.”

“It is _your_ home, too, Uther,” Gorlois reminded. 

Uther shook his head. “I have no home other than in the arms of Ygraine,” he swore.

Gorlois bit his tongue. “Do you know that some of the Gollwyds have set up tents within the walls of Hwrlic?” he asked.

Uther frowned deeply. “And why shouldn’t they?” he snapped.

“They have taken a new name to themselves as well,” Gorlois continued, ignoring him. “The Áfunden - The Found.”

Uther grimaced as he got to his feet, taking hold of a pair of breeches flung across the end of the bed. He looked between them and the floor, bracing himself for the challenge. He bent suddenly, the motion of someone who knows that pain is unavoidable and just wishes it to be done quickly. “What is in a name?” he asked with a sharp intake of breath.

“What indeed, Uther Pendragon,” Gorlois agreed. He watched as Uther cursed and swore, attempting to get his feet inside the breeches whilst only able to keep the fabric from melting together with one hand and swaying from poor balance and weakness. He was determined, Gorlois would give him that. He was also stubborn, pig-headed, arrogant and vain. “If you need assistance, you could just ask,” he suggested sweetly.

Uther looked up, bent double as he was with loose knees and his arse pointed like a present to a desperate man, Gorlois made very sure not to laugh. Uther’s mouth was drawn tight like purse strings, pouting fierce and proud. His scowl slowly faded.

“Damn it, Gorlois,” he said at last, “stop staring at me and help me into my trousers.”

Gorlois crossed to the bed. Uther stilled as he allowed him to pull up his breeches and gather them with a leather strap. “A king unable to dress himself, whoever heard the like,” Gorlois said with a tut. He finished tying Uther’s belt in a firm overknot, several extra inches of leather were to spare, a testament to the sickness Uther had endured. “You will be wanting a manservant next.”

Uther laughed, a rare sound from his friend of late. “Not I,” he swore. He smoothed his shirt over the fastening. His face became sombre once more. “Give me news,” he said.

Gorlois stepped away from Uther. He cleared his throat; this question he was prepared for. “After you defeated the Bastard, there was some... small unrest throughout the realm, but it was short-lived. The old king was not well loved, and your _situation_ has become quite the rallying call for the common folk. The nobility are, as we know, cowards and followed the popular opinion, committing their forces to you unreservedly. We also felt it... wise to invite representatives from neighbouring lands to swear fealty. Many have complied and await your recovery to bring their oaths before you at your coronation.”

“Who is _we_?” Uther demanded.

Gorlois’s eyes turned nervously to the window. He licked his lips. “Aegan,” he admitted.

“Aegan?!” cried Uther, his voice breaking with a cough at the sudden, harsh exhalation. “He is... a traitor... he should be... in prison,” he spluttered.

“Ach,” Gorlois growled. “What was I supposed to do, Uther? You were unconscious, the land was in uproar... You know that I’m not a statesman and Aegan’s silver tongue is second only to your own. And, if you are honest, you understand why he did it. He placed himself in the dungeons afterwards but prison is a cruel punishment for a single mistake.”

“He betrayed me,” Uther spat.

“We have all betrayed someone,” Gorlois said. “It is an unavoidable fate.”

Uther’s eyes seemed to burn into him at the words, and Gorlois could not hold his gaze for long. It was a look that he had sometimes, something ancient and vengeful. He had a tendency to sweep you up into things, things beyond a person’s control. He was, in his way, irresistible. That was enough alone to make a man nervous. 

“So what would you have me do with him, Gorlois?” Uther asked in a quiet, reasonable voice. “Do you forget that it was his treachery that led to Marjoram’s arrest?” 

Gorlois reared up, anger flashing through him. “Oh course I bloody haven’t!” he roared. “But none of us were ever prepared for this life you have set us upon. Marjoram would never have been arrested but for helping _you_ , Uther. Do _you_ forget _that_?”

“Do you think _any_ of that day escapes me?!” Uther shouted in return. “It cost me my love and it nearly cost me my life. What happened to Marjoram was a travesty, one which I will never forget.”

“You could have damn well fooled me,” Gorlois snapped in reply before pressing his lips tightly together. Friend or no, Uther was the king now and, from what little Gorlois knew about kings, they weren’t fond of being yelled at. “You could at least ask how she is,” he added softly.

Uther’s stern face held for a moment longer before it relaxed cautiously. “How is Marjoram?” he said.

Gorlois sniffed, still feeling righteously indignant. “She is well,” he replied. Despite his annoyance, a faint smile ticked at his cheek as he thought of her kind eyes. “She is... pregnant.”

Silence hung between them. Uther’s mouth was held slightly open.

“It is mine,” Gorlois confirmed, reading his expression as disbelief. 

“That is...” Uther whispered brokenly, “that is... news. Wonderful news.” With each word, his voice became stronger and his face, that had been so wan with sickness, infused with colour like sunrise over the grey sea. He strode to Gorlois and gathered him into an embrace, using his left arm to thump his back. It came as such a surprise that it took Gorlois a little while to respond.

“Thank you, Uther,” he said. There were sharp pinpricks of water in his eyes, he blinked them away and squeezed Uther back. Uther hissed with discomfort at the press of Gorlois’s pauldron to his chest. They parted from each other with a tense courtesy - they were warriors, such affections were strangers to them. But then, so was the idea of fatherhood, of love so great and deep that it made you want to scream and throw yourself into the mouth of hell for it.

“Have we had any word of Ygraine yet?” Uther asked quietly.

Gorlois sighed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Cornaelius is one of those who have _not_ sent a representative to court for your coronation.”

“Cornaelius was always a spineless craven,” Uther said harshly. 

“You sound as if you know him.”

Uther clenched his fists. “It is no secret,” he muttered. “That kingdom rots like... like...” He put his hand to his injured shoulder and pressed, “a festering wound. And it is to this place that the Bastard has sent my Ygraine.”

“I am sure she is well,” Gorlois placated. “The bastard said she was in her brother’s keeping.”

“If that is true, why have we not heard from her?” Uther countered.

All Gorlois could offer was a shrug. “I do not know, Uther. But once you are crowned, King Cornaelius cannot refuse you without risking war.”

“The war began long ago,” Uther swore quietly. The far-away light in his eyes kindled. “You say the nobles have committed men to me: how many do we have?” 

Gorlois frowned. “We are not without strength,” he conceded. “We have maybe... two thousand men, with the Gollwyds.”

Uther nodded slowly. “Have the blacksmiths begin preparing to arm such a number,” he said.

“The walls of Camelot are high and easily defended,” Gorlois reminded. 

“I do not go for Camelot!” Uther barked. “But if Cornaelius is allowed to hear that we are amassing an army, he will certainly release Ygraine. And once he gives her to me, I will disarm the host and live my life staring at the sea.”

“I do not believe you.” The words were out of Gorlois’s mouth before he could stop them. Uther’s dangerously steady stare told him that not to speak would be as dangerous as remaining silent. “I mean, “Gorlois continued, “that a man such as yourself will never be satisfied with inaction. With so many at your command, would you truly allow Cornaelius to retain control of the most powerful kingdom of the six? Would you not seek to unite this land and theirs as you did the Gollwyds and the Westernmen?”

Uther shook his head. “Camelot has something far more dangerous than an army,” he said. “Cornaelius may have the title of king, but the dragons hold the true power in Camelot and their so-called Lords will do anything to protect them. We could outnumber Camelot’s forces ten to one and still rue the exchange.” He stepped forward and laid a reassuring hand to Gorlois’s forearm. “I am not yet such a fool to think that I can wage war upon magic and win.” 

“I do not like this, Uther,” Gorlois grunted tiredly. It took so much effort to oppose Uther’s will, even just to challenge his judgement was inexplicably exhausting.

“You are not the King of Hwrlic,” Uther reminded. “Do we still have contact with the Bastard’s informant within Camelot?” he asked.

Gorlois nodded glumly. “A crow arrived three days after you killed the old king,” he said. “The note swore itself to you, but gave no name.”

“A crow may be shot down,” Uther said. “An informant would give no name for fear of discovery. Did they say what they wished for?”

“They simply asked that, when the time came, they would be ‘remembered’.”

Uther chuckled. “Then send them word that we intend to assault Camelot before the turn of the season and that - when I am king there - their help will not be forgotten.”

“But you said...”

“Never trust a traitor,” Uther explained.

Gorlois bowed. He had never thought to have to do that to Uther. He straightened and moved to the door. As he opened it, Uther called to him.

“Aegan must be executed,” he said. “He cannot be trusted any more than this place-seeking turncoat in Camelot.”

Gorlois nodded. Somehow he had known that Uther would not allow Aegan to live. “As my king wishes,” he replied thickly. 

****

The six dragons of the council, one for each of the old kingdoms, gathered within the Great Cavern. Khomivo - the largest of the dragons - whuffed impatiently, a puff of smoke rising from his snout and hovering like mist. It clung to the damp mosses trailing from the cavern walls and dripped, joining the tiny ticks of time that dropped and trickled from the vaulted heights above.

A new sound echoed through the cave; footfalls, hurrying down the long stairway from the castle above.

“He is coming,” Clorosavina said, ruffling her wings, the ethereal light shining through the delicate membrane and web of veins.

Kilgharrah bowed his head. 

The man Ulfred entered the presence of the Council. He was a small, fragile thing; grey haired and stooped, old before his time. “Kilgharrah,” he panted, coming to rest on the small promontory of rock jutting out into the cavern. He looked between the other dragons. Assembled like this, they were a sight that could make the boldest tremble.

“We have called you here today, Ulfred, because we have heard a disturbing rumour. There is a new king in west,” Kilgharrah said.

“The kingdoms of man have never interested you before,” Ulfred replied. His shoulders drew in defensively under the unblinking stare of all six living dragons.

“The new king is of great interest to us,” Clorosavina said. “As is his name.”

Ulfred’s eyes cast down. “What is in a name?” he asked evasively.

Khomivo growled. A short spout of flame curled from his mouth. “You know full well what we are asking, little man,” he roared.

“So his name is Uther,” Ulfred replied, his voice a weak shout. “Bearing his name is not a crime.”

“Is it your son?” Khomivo demanded.

“You told me Uther was dead,” Kilgharrah said over him. “You betrayed us.”

“I betrayed no-one! The ceremony was conducted as you demanded.”

“Is it your son?!” Khomivo pressed, he swept his wings and sent himself aloft, the powerful downdraught battering against Ulfred.

Kilgharrah raised his voice above the wind. “You knew the prophesy, you would risk sacrificing the entirety of your kind for one boy?”

“You are _not_ my kind!” Ulfred snarled angrily. “You took all that was left of my family from me!”

Khomivo roared, flames shot from him, wreathing around the other dragons harmlessly. Ulfred lifted his hand and cast a shield before him, protecting himself from the assault.

“ _Is it your son_?!” Khomivo’s voice made the stones themselves shake.

“I don’t know!” shouted Ulfred desperately, his shield beginning to fail. He fell to his knees. “By the ever-seeing eyes of the triple goddess, I do not know!”

“Enough, Khomivo,” Kilgharrah said. The other dragon ignored him. “Enough!” Kilgharrah bellowed, batting Khomivo with his wing in a blow that would have toppled towers. Khomivo reluctantly obeyed, barely turning his head. Ulfred broke his enchantment, sweat dripping down his scorched face.

Kilgharrah spoke softly, demanding all assembled listened. “Our source within Cornaelius’s court tells us this _King_ Uther is amassing an army,” he said. “It can mean only one thing - he is coming to seek revenge upon us for what was done to him.”

“All young Agravaine wants is recognition. He is not what I would call a reliable source of information,” Ulfred said, finding his feet. “I will go to Hwrlic, if it _is_ Uther, I will know it.”

“No,” snapped Kilgharrah. “I will not leave this to chance again. We six will stand against him and I expect you to lead the Dragonlords out beside us.”

“I could command you not to do this thing,” Ulfred stated. 

“Even you cannot command the six when we are united,” Kilgharrah said. “Are we united?”

The dragons threw back their heads roared their wordless support. The air boomed with sound, small cascades of rock fell from the cavern roof.

Kilgharrah lowered his gaze. “Then it is settled,” he said to Ulfred. “The Dragons go to war.”

****

The dragon’s eyrie atop Nefoedd Giât was a stark and lonely place. Barely accessible by foot, up a path which had long fell into disuse, it jutted out from the mountainside overlooking the lake below. Merlin tried to level his breathing; despite the cold and bare rock open to the sky, he was sweating. He had only been here twice before, both times at the will of the great dragon. This time, he did not wish any assistance climbing to its heights. He stumbled along the cracked and broken path with only determination as his guide.

~~~~

“So you made it,” Kilgharrah greeted as Merlin stumbled into the broken-sided hollow that he used for a lair. A large heap of stones dominated the lee, stacked like a cairn but on a much grander scale. 

“You knew,” accused Merlin, gasping for air.

“I am not yet so old that I could not hear the commotion you made of climbing my mountain,” Kilgharrah said, a faint derisive humour tinkling in his grave voice. “You would have woken a sleeping giant with such a noise.”

“No,” growled Merlin. “I mean _you knew_. All of these years you knew who Uther was, who Arthur _is_ and you did _nothing_.”

The great dragon ruffled his wings uncomfortably. “On the contrary, my warlock friend, I did a great many things.”

“You should have told someone.”

“Others knew, but they have all passed beyond the confines of this world. Your father was one.”

“You should have told _me_ ,” Merlin said bitterly. 

The great dragon sighed. “And what good would it have done?” he asked. “What difference would it have made to admit that my once noble race was reduced to _this_ ,” he cast his wing at the pile of rocks to his right, “by one of their own?”

“You started it,” Merlin countered. “You took his magic, you cast him out. It could only have been the dragons. I’ve seen the prophesy...”

“You have _seen_ it?” Kilgharrah interrupted.

“Well, there’s this book,” Merlin said exasperatedly, “The Pendragon history.”

Kilgharrah broke into gales of laughter. “The Pendragon _history_?” he roared. “Is it a very short book?”

Merlin frowned. “No,” he said. “Gaius has spent days studying it and has barely begun. A page fell out of it and I picked it up. It was written in the tongue of dragons...”

“Uther took many things from this mountain top; things that were not his to take,” Kilgharrah said, all levity dropping from his voice. “You have not seen this book yourself, then?”

“Well, no,” Merlin admitted. “Gaius has kept it by his side day and night since he got it from the vaults.”

“It is hardly a surprise,” Kilgharrah sniffed. “His own life is bound within its pages. May I ask - what has motivated this sudden interest in things long past?”

“Something happened to Arthur.” The words came out as a rush. 

“When the sky burned, that was him.” Kilgharrah stated. He sounded more tired than surprised.

Merlin nodded. “I am supposed to be the greatest living sorcerer and even I don’t think I could have done what he did.”

“Do not underestimate yourself,” Kilgharrah said thoughtfully. “Arthur simply does not have your control, he will have spent almost his entire life-force in generating such elemental fury. I assume he has fallen into an unbreakable sleep?”

“Then you _know_ about latent mages?” gasped Merlin.

“I do,” confirmed Kilgharrah. He snaked his sinewy neck to be level with Merlin, his nostrils flaring. “And so do you, I see,” he said. “Have you not entered your friend’s dreaming?”

“I have,” agreed Merlin. “But each attempt has failed. He threw a fireball at me the last time.”

“It is always fire he uses?” Kilgharrah asked.

Merlin frowned. “So far as I have seen,” he replied.

Kilgharrah nodded. “Then your path is clear. I have always told you that you and Arthur are two sides of the same coin; you must be the water to his fire, the light in his darkness.”

“He knows I have magic and he _hates_ me for it,” Merlin said.

Kilgharrah chuckled. “The half cannot truly hate what makes it whole, as I have said before.”

“But what should I do if he attacks me again? The things he does in his dreams, they manifest when I’m awake.”

“He can hurt you because it is _your_ dream as well. Your powers are equally as potent there as his.”

“Then if what happens to me can become reality, it could for him as well.” Merlin said. “I will not raise my hand against him.”

“I did not think you would. Your loyalty to the _Pendragon_ is a bond not easily cast aside. But you must take care that this does not cloud your judgement; the future of magic depends upon your actions within the dreaming.”

“I told Gaius that I would not go back into his mind,” said Merlin flatly.

“Sometimes, the decisions we make are not the right ones. I have learned this the hard way and lost what I tried to protect.”

Merlin pressed his lips together. Slowly he nodded. The sun was setting and the still waters of the lake several hundred feet below shone crimson. “I... ought to go,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed Kilgharrah.

Merlin peered over the lip of the ledge. “It’s getting pretty dark,” he observed.

“It is,” granted Kilgharrah.

“I don’t suppose... there’s a quicker way down, is there?”

Kilgharrah laughed. “The road to enlightenment is a hard one, my friend,” he said.

Merlin drew his jacket about himself, against the chill breeze that wrapped itself around the rocks and scraggy trees. “Right, of course,” he said gruffly. He began to stomp towards the path. He glanced back.

“Merlin, sometimes the path can be made easier if you just ask the right questions,” Kilgharrah advised.

Merlin turned. He pouted a mere fraction. “Please will you take me back to Camelot,” he said.

Kilgharrah stretched his stiff wings tentatively. “That, my dear warlock, is a very good question.”

****

The evening was drawing in as Gwaine found himself hobbling onto the grassy training ground. It was further than he had tried to walk since his injury, but he had a purpose. That purpose took the form of six foot something of brawn and thick-headedness currently thwacking the seven hells out of a straw-stuffed dummy at the end of the pitch.

“I think he’s plenty vanquished,” he called to Percival. He could see the sweating, ridged, over-worked muscles of Perci’s arms straining even by the light of the early moon.

Percival grunted and took another huge, swinging blow at the dummy.

“A greatsword, hey?” Gwaine persisted.

“I needed something with more reach,” Percival replied gruffly. He took a huge slashing swipe at the dummy, severing its head and sending the wooden rod that stood as its spine flying into splinters.

“Good work,” Gwaine praised. Despite the defeat of his target, Percival still had his back to him. The burning ache of his leg and Percival’s obstinate ignorance made frustration swell in Gwaine. “Damn it Perci!” he exclaimed. “I have tried to invite you to the tavern, I have brought supper to your empty chambers. I even picked you some flowers because I didn’t know what else to do! Anyone else would have been in bed with me by now!”

At last, Percival tuned on him. He was hollowed-eyed and sallow-cheeked. As he spoke, the gap where his two front teeth had been knocked out whistled and made him lisp slightly. “You are trying to seduce me?” he asked incredulously.

Gwaine laughed. “If I thought it would get you to talk to me, I would be prepared to make even that sacrifice.”

Percival scowled at him, a frown that looked more like remorse than anger. “What do you want, Gwaine?” he asked flatly.

“I want you to come inside,” Gwaine said wearily. “I want you to eat something, drink something, tell me off for talking bollocks. I want you to go and visit Leon.”

“I don’t like to impose on Gaius,” Percival excused weakly.

“Leon’s back in his room now, Gaius says he is out of danger and will make a good recovery.”

“That’s...” Percival sniffed, his eyes glinted brightly. Never once had Gwaine seen the stoic man moved to tears. “I am glad to hear he is improving.”

“He would welcome your company. I think he is getting fed up of hearing me speak.”

Percival huffed. “I’m not so sure of that,” he said in a raw whisper. “I should not think I have anything to offer that you could not.”

“Then at least return to the barracks with me,” Gwaine sighed. “How long is it since you slept?”

Percival shrugged. “Three or four days,” he admitted.

Gwaine stepped forward and grasped Percival’s arm. Beneath the boiled leather of his bracer, Percival was trembling with fatigue. “Please, Perci, come back inside with me. You are punishing yourself for something that is not your fault.”

“Then whose fault is it,” Percival snarled angrily, shaking him off, “that I lay unconscious while others fell?”

“The living need you more now than the dead,” Gwaine answered. He hobbled with deliberate obviousness, emphasising it all the more now that night had truly set in. 

A sudden shadow flickered over the training field, an object passing before the moon. They both looked up.

“What was that?” Percival barked, alert to the point of sleep-deprived mania.

“A pheasant,” Gwaine replied levelly. 

“A pheasant that can blot out the moon?”

“A very large pheasant,” Gwaine corrected. “Now help me inside.”

Percival frowned suspiciously but stooped a little and offered Gwaine his arm. Gwaine hopped, transferring his weight from stick to fleshy prop, feeling the blessed relief of Percival’s gentle strength supporting him.

They made their way to the barracks slowly, Percival glancing occasionally back to the sky. Mercifully, no more pheasants showed their improbable faces. As they reached the halo of light that spilled from the door to the barracks, Percival cleared his throat.

“Thank you for the flowers,” he said gruffly.


	8. Chapter 8

Merlin pushed his way into the king’s chambers, the door slamming back against the wall before swinging closed with a bang. The guard didn’t even question him. True, he was known to them. And yes, as Gaius’s assistant and Arthur’s manservant, Merlin had every _right_ to be in the Royal bedroom. But part of him, a detached aspect of his brain, rather liked to assume it was the fearsome, steely glint of determination in his eye and the wild quiff of his windblown hair that made them huddle back against the wall like naughty, chainmail-clad boys. 

“Right,” he said at Arthur’s unmoved form. He went as far as waggling his finger. “This stops now.” 

He looked about the room. Gaius wasn’t there but his medicine bag was - that meant he wasn’t far away. In with the assortments of tinctures and poultices he always carried, Merlin saw several vials of the potion he had been taking to enter Arthur’s dreams. Scooping them all up before his mentor could return, he swallowed them; one after the other, after the other. He swayed his way to the bed, feet already dragging as if the floor was made of mud, and flopped messily onto the bed. Something was less squishy than it ought to be. He looked down and found that he was sprawled on Arthur. With a slight chuckle, he half fell, half rolled onto the empty side of the bed, and then wriggled up to Arthur’s side. He took Arthur’s hand in his; it was as cool as a stream in spring. With hazy eyes, Merlin looked at his king’s face. The proud cheekbones stood gaunt above sunken, darkened eyelids. Arthur’s lips were pale. Life was slipping from him.

“You may have something to say about this if... _when_ you wake up,” Merlin said. He nestled closer still, twining his leg between Arthur’s, pressing their bodies tight and trapping their joined hands. His chin rested on Arthur’s shoulder; brow to temple, nose fitted into the curve of Arthur’s cheek, lips barely grazing the stubble-pricked jaw. “But I’m not taking any chances this time.”

He closed his eyes.

“I am _not_ letting go of you,” he whispered.

~~~~

Merlin was back in the deep dungeons below Camelot. Not known for their hospitality at the best of times, they seemed even more dank and despairing than ever. Slime oozed and dripped down the walls and the air was thick with the foul stink of human misery. Cells opened to both sides of the stone hallway, brittle and flaking orange rails barring their maws like blood-stained teeth and mist clinging to the ground like fetid breath. The far end of the corridor was swamped in swirling shadows: the cell that Arthur had occupied last time they were there.

“Arthur?!” Merlin called through the gloom. To his right, from the nearest cell, a shrill cackle sounded.

Merlin took the torch from the sconce beside him, the sole point of light in the long, narrow passage. It was the same one that Arthur had previously tried to flambé him with, in point of fact, and was probably safer by Merlin’s side anyway. Tentatively, he tiptoed to the grille. He put his hand to the iron, it was the kind of cold that sucked heat from the skin. He lifted the torch closer, weaving it through the bars to try and see inside.

Suddenly a figure rushed at him, its long, filthy nails clawing at his wrist. From beneath the bedraggled fold of a cowl, bird-bright hazel eyes flashed. Merlin recognised those eyes, but they seemed descended even further into madness than he had ever seen them. Morgana, once stately; beautiful; regal. She wailed and gnashed her ruined teeth, throwing shrill curses at him as he fell back from her clutches. The cacophony seemed to rouse the inhabitants of the other cells: bars began to rattle, there was groaning, terrible threats - each one in a voice Merlin knew. The swelling noise pressed in on all sides, like a physical force propelling him along the length of the hall and towards the shade-infested cell at its blind end. Morgana, mad and broken; Cenred, drenched in blood; Agravaine with a knife in his hands, spilling platitudes that echoed hollowly through the dungeon.

“All of them betrayed me.”

It was Arthur’s voice, booming through the darkness.

“They were my friends, my allies, my _family_ , and they all sought to destroy me.”

A moan came from the penultimate enclosure. Merlin didn’t want to look, but some deep curiosity within him urged him on. He stepped up to the bars and cast his torchlight inside. Two bodies were wrapped together in the throes of lust; bare skin glistened with dewy sweat, fingers digging into flesh, dark hair mingled, mouths kissing. It was Guinevere and Lancelot; as they had never been, but as Arthur’s mind made them. Gwen turned her head as Lancelot kissed over her bosom, her eyes meeting Merlin’s with shameless greed. He staggered backwards, sickened at the spurious sight, at himself for watching it, and at Arthur for believing in any part of himself that that was the nature of the thing.

“It wasn’t like that!” he cried, appealing to the unseen voice.

“She broke my heart!” Arthur raged back at him. “He betrayed me!”

“Neither of them meant for what happened,” said Merlin. “It was... complicated.”

Arthur’s voice seemed less distant now, coming from the final cell, veiled behind a fog that writhed as if formed from the bodies of ephemeral snakes. Merlin reached out to it, his fingers being swallowed into something senselessly black, like ink that was neither cold nor wet; or smoke that did not disperse at touch.

“It was still treachery. All of them played me for a fool.”

Merlin pushed his hand into the swirling nothingness again; it did not resist him. With a deep breath, he stepped in to it.

“All of _you_.” Arthur’s voice hissed. Suddenly, Merlin emerged from the mist, finding himself in the cell he had occupied on his last visit to Arthur’s mind. It was not, however, as it was before. The filthy straw had been swept clean, the iron manacles removed from the walls. The large, carven throne from the great hall of Camelot now resided within the four, small walls and a figure sat upon it. A pair of familiar blue eyes met his; the gaze hard and cold.

It was Merlin. It was... well, it was _him_. And it was very disconcerting.

“What you did to me was as cruel as placing a blade in my breast.” The words came not from some disembodied source but, instead, from the mouth of the other Merlin. It now sounded like _his_ voice, but the tonality; the inflection; were pure Arthur.

“I never did anything _to_ you,” Merlin swore.

“You lied to me, every day,” Arthur countered. “The others, they had my trust from the start. But _you_...” He got to his feet and squared his shoulders, his chest puffed in a way that Merlin himself would never stand; the imperious self-possession of a swordsman. He began to walk around Merlin in a tight circle. “I didn’t trust you. I wasn’t even sure I _liked_ you. It was my father who brought you into my service.”

“Because I saved your _life_...”

Arthur came to a halt facing him once more, like a reflection in a warped looking-glass. “You gained my trust,” he accused. “You tricked me into befriending you, into caring for you.” The doppelganger licked his lips hesitantly. “Even to... _loving_ you,” he said. The big, blue eyes that stared at Merlin were red-rimmed and damp, but the tears felt like a mocking parody of true grief in this stolen face. 

“Don’t you think you’re laying this on a little thick?” Merlin suddenly snapped.

Arthur-Merlin blinked at him. “What?” he asked.

“All this,” Merlin said, his tongue running faster than his brain, “Agravaine, Cenred... even Gwen; it’s the past. You’re hiding behind them because you won’t face what has happened to you.”

“You mean this... this... magic,” Arthur said. He wasn’t even using Merlin’s voice anymore and the words did not fit with the mouth that said them. He spread his arms wide, almost in challenge. As he did the throne behind him roared up in flames.

“Yes, damn it!” Merlin cried. The fire slithered along the stones as if they were fuel. Already, he could feel the heat begin to mount. From outside the cell, Merlin could hear shouts of panic from the other inhabitants of the dungeon.

“My father knew what to do to traitors and those with magic,” Arthur sneered. “He hanged them, or drowned them or...” The flames leapt higher. “He _burned_ them.”

A scream - Merlin thought it to be Morgana’s - reeled through the prison. In it she begged; for forgiveness, to be saved, for it to end. Agravaine, too, pleaded for his life and swore never to betray another living soul. A crescendo of agonised wails mixed with the twisting fire and, suddenly, Merlin understood.

“They are all you,” he said quietly, staring at the him-who-was-Arthur. “Each of the crimes you attribute to them, you place upon yourself.”

“And why shouldn’t I?!” Arthur roared. With a solemn grimace, he brought his hands together in a clap. The summoned flames jumped to him and swallowed him alone in a towering column.

“Arthur!” Merlin yelled. Frantically he looked around. The cell was bare but for the scorched stone. There wasn’t even any smoke from the supernatural blaze. In desperation, Merlin reached out with his mind.

“ _Beswillan_ ,” he said.

From no-where, a large barrel of water appeared over the top of the fire and upended itself with a fearsome splash and hiss. A very wet but otherwise unscathed Arthur spluttered at Merlin from the steam as if all the fire had done was to strip him of the fleshy veneer he had adopted. His hair hung in straw-coloured clumps in his eyes. His brow was furrowed angrily.

“What in God’s name was that?!” he demanded in the new-found silence.

Merlin chewed his lip. “A bucket of water,” he explained.

“A bucket? It felt more like a bathtub!”

Merlin shrugged. “You were getting unnecessarily overdramatic.”

Arthur pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes. “ _Overdramatic_?” he gaped. “I have just discovered that _everything_ I thought to be true is a lie and you tell me I’m being overdramatic?”

“The bit with the flames and the screaming...” Merlin observed.

Arthur pouted. His face wavered between offense and embarrassment, before the latter won out. “Alright,” he admitted, “that was perhaps a little dramatic.”

Merlin nodded. 

Arthur sighed and slumped into the blackened throne behind him. He stared up at Merlin with steady, soul-drinking eyes. “What do I do?” he asked.

“Why are you asking me, Arthur?” Merlin said. 

Arthur hesitated “Because... I want _you_ to tell me. Because you know more about this than I do.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “And because I _do_ trust you.”

Merlin swallowed and looked down at the king. 

The king looked up at Merlin and swallowed. “So...”

Merlin decided to swap swallowing for speaking. “We both have to leave,” he said with a shrug.

“Any idea _how_?”

“Well, all the other times it was because you hit me with something.” Arthur crooked an eyebrow at him. “Don’t hit me with anything,” Merlin added hastily.

“So you don’t actually know?” Arthur asked. “How did you even get here?” He frowned. “Where _is_ here. It looks like Camelot but I don’t recognise this place.”

“It’s... sort of a dream,” Merlin explained. “We’re actually in bed right now.”

“You and I are in bed?” Arthur asked flatly. “As in, the _same_ bed?”

“Umm...”

“You and I are in bed, on our own, _together_?” Arthur said slowly.

“Well, Gaius is probably there as well...”

“I’m not sure that is any better,” Arthur replied.

Merlin grinned. “And you said that you loved me,” he chided.

Arthur huffed and spluttered in protest. “Of course I meant as a brother, as I would any of my men!”

Merlin pulled a face. “I’ve heard enough about your family to want to stay out of it. Can I just stay as your irritatingly wise and unconventionally handsome manservant?”

Arthur’s lips pursed. “Well, one of those things at least is true,” he remarked.

“Oh yeah, which?” Merlin asked, leaning casually against the throne.

“You _are _very irritating,” Arthur answered. He smirked, but as he did he reached out and wrapped his fingers around Merlin’s, his palm covering Merlin’s knuckles.__

__Merlin shivered. The walls surrounding them seemed to undulate. He saw Arthur shudder as well._ _

__“What’s happening?” Arthur gasped, his fingers clenching. Darkness rushed into the cell like water into a breached boat._ _

__“We’re waking up,” Merlin whispered; his words and then the two of them - still joined by the hand - slipped into the swelling black._ _

__****_ _

__Gorlois tapped at the map spread across the large wooden table set up in Uther’s council room. “And this area here,” he said, “is what we promised to the Westernmen.”_ _

__“Old agreements must be upheld,” agreed Uther. “Send some of the guard to assist with the settlement.”_ _

__It had been like this for the last few weeks. The coronation feasts and tournament were soon forgotten as the needs of the kingdom pressed. There were diplomatic envoys to see and send out, trade agreements to sign, a court to appoint. Uther had issued a carte blanche for all the laws changed by the Bastard and reverted the statute back to the agreed laws of the six kingdoms. This, inevitably, had caused some conflicts as people who had benefitted under the Bastard’s reign were challenged by those he had disfavoured. Many lands had to be reassigned, titles revoked and replaced, prisoners freed and free men imprisoned. It was a bloody mess and Uther did not imagine it getting better any time soon._ _

__“And of other matters?” he asked. Gorlois scowled as his eyes flicked mistrustfully to the others in the briefing; not all were to his liking or, more specifically, not all were Gollwyds._ _

__“They are progressing as well as can be expected. Coke and coal supplies have been restored and the craftsmen report they have three quarters of your... demand fulfilled.”_ _

__Uther nodded. “And what news from our crow?”_ _

__“Only that they have relayed your message.”_ _

__Uther clenched his first. “Of Ygraine?” he asked._ _

__“Nothing,” Gorlois said. “The contact says that there is little more they can do to assist in that matter.”_ _

__Uther growled and slammed his fist down on the map before them. The counters that signified strategic resources jumped with the impact, as did many of the newer, more timorous members of Uther’s council. Only Gorlois stood firm._ _

__“What is Cornaelius playing at?” Uther growled. “He gains nothing from this course.”_ _

__“Perhaps he is deliberating how best to respond?” Gorlois suggested._ _

__Suddenly the doors to the chamber flung open with a crash. A mud encrusted foot scout dashed into their presence. “My Lords,” he gasped. Uther saw Gorlois frown; he was still getting used to the title Uther had granted him. “My Lords, an army approaches from the east.”_ _

__“ _Deliberating_?” Uther said to Gorlois. Gorlois shrugged. “Go on,” Uther commanded._ _

__“They were spotted as they crossed the border into Acestir. At first, it was assumed it was some kind of procession; sent to honour the king.”_ _

__“One does not send an army as a mark of respect,” Uther observed._ _

__The footman shook his head. “N... no, my Lord,” he stammered. “But this is no ordinary army. It is... it... it is...”_ _

__“Spit it out, boy,” Gorlois growled._ _

__The scout seemed to gather himself together, straightening. He licked his lips. “Dragons, my Lord. Dragons and an army of robed men, together. We counted one hundred and thirty on horseback and more on foot. It is the...”_ _

__“The Dragonlords,” Uther said flatly._ _

__A few of the new court scoffed. Even Gorlois snorted. “Dragonlords,” he chuckled. “I think someone has been eating mushrooms in the woods. What would the dragons want with us?”_ _

__“It is what the dragons want with _me_ ,” replied Uther under his breath._ _

__He strode to the foot scout and took him by the shoulders. He felt the way the young man shook, a combination of fatigue and fear. He stank, evidently he had been on patrol for many weeks. His brown eyes were wide and wild, racing over Uther’s face. Uther hoped to God that it was some grave madness that brought the scout crashing in on them but, in his heart, he knew it was not. He stooped a little so that he could stare into the scout’s eyes. “You have done well,” he said softly, holding the young man’s gaze in the steady way that a stablehand might calm a skittering horse. He felt the scout still, slowly acquiescing to Uther’s will. “This news is grave and important and you have brought it to us swiftly. We have time to rally our forces and protect the kingdom, and that is thanks to you.”_ _

__The scout nodded, hesitantly at first before a smile broke on his lips. He sighed happily as Uther released him._ _

__“Find the boy somewhere to rest... and bathe,” Uther instructed in his usual, bold tones to one of the guards. The guard bowed and hurried to lead the scout from the room._ _

__Uther returned to the council - the war council, now. The sheep-faces of the new advisors looked to Uther hopefully. For the very first time, Uther wondered if the Bastard didn’t have a point to keep no council but his own._ _

__Gorlois turned grimly to him. “If Cornaelius has truly unleashed the dragons on us, he can only mean for our total destruction,” he said._ _

__Uther shook his head. “Cornaelius doesn’t have the power to command the dragons. If they have ridden out, it is on business of their own.” He heard the aides that flocked behind him chatter nervously. With a secret roll of his eyes he added: “Perhaps they come to pledge their allegiance to a king who can stand without the use of a stick!”_ _

__The others chuckled timidly. Gorlois raised his eyebrow._ _

__“Come,” said Uther placidly, “Let me and my Lord Commander discuss this matter in private.” He looked at the remaining guard and jerked his head sharply. The guard herded the council from the room._ _

__To his credit, Gorlois waited until they were alone before speaking. “I would truly love to know how a pup that Berrin found half-starved at the side of the road knows so much about the politics of kingdoms,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?”_ _

__Uther cast his eyes downwards, ostensibly studying the trade map. “I do,” he said quietly, “and one day I shall, I swear.”_ _

__“But not today?” Gorlois pressed._ _

__“Not today,” Uther agreed._ _

__Gorlois sighed. “It would seem the armaments we have been preparing will come in useful.”_ _

__Uther nodded. “Fifteen hundred armed men is a strong force.”_ _

__“Strong enough?” Gorlois asked._ _

__“I don’t know,” Uther admitted. “But we must not let them reach the castle; the dragons will burn us alive if we try to hide behind our walls.”_ _

__Gorlois clapped his hand to Uther’s back. “I never expected we would,” he said. “But where shall we meet them?”_ _

__Uther bent over the map. He dusted away the counters that signified the mines and farmland - neither of those things would matter if there were no people left to work them - and placed six, white chips within Acestir. He studied the lines that signified hills and valleys, leading from the verdant mouth of the forest. The problem was that while the Dragonlords would be fierce foes on the ground, the dragons would unequivocally rule the air. Not that he expected the dragons would get involved in the battle from the start: no, they would spend the blood of a hundred Lords and their warrior mages rather than risk one of their own. However, just their combined presence - a thing unheard of in all the history that Uther had studied as a boy, from the time of the great gathering onwards - would be enough to send his men scattering for the hills._ _

__“We need a pass,” Uther stated thoughtfully. “Something that will limit the dragons’ ability to interfere with the battle.”_ _

__Gorlois pursed his lips and looked at the map. He pointed to Holt Heafod pass, set about a day’s ride from Hwrlic. “Here,” he suggested. It is directly between Acestir and the coastal lowlands.”_ _

__“It is also wooded,” Uther observed. “The dragons would have but to breathe upon the pines and they would catch ablaze.”_ _

__Gorlois tapped his fingers agitatedly on the table. Uther lent close in to the map. “What about here?” he said, pointing to a small passage surrounded by steep ranges, the very last throes of the mountains before they met the sea. “It has no name here written,” he said with a frown._ _

__“It is Dunnaedre,” Gorlois said in a hushed voice. “The Gollwyds do not go there. There is one of the ancient symbols carved into the mountainside, the figure of a great snake eating its own tail. It is said to be cursed, nothing grows there and no animals call it home.”_ _

__“Then it is perfect for our needs,” Uther said._ _

__“It is but a few hours as the crow flies from Hwrlic,” Gorlois pointed out, “And probably a matter of minutes by dragonwing. If we should fail, there would not be enough time to evacuate the town.”_ _

__“Then we will not fail,” Uther replied sternly._ _

__“We will not fail,” Gorlois echoed. He shivered. “How do you do that?” he demanded. “With the men, and that scout: I thought he was about to wet his britches and all you did was take him by the arm and I thought he might offer to fight all the dragons by himself.”_ _

__Uther frowned. It was true that men followed him, that his words moved them. But that was what a commander did, he spoke boldly in times where they needed to be brave, softly when they cautioned patience. He shrugged. “I tell them what they need to hear,” he said._ _

__“But you tell me the truth?” Gorlois pressed._ _

__“Of course!”_ _

__Instead of being reassured, Gorlois’s face seemed to darken. “That is what I needed to hear,” he said suspiciously._ _

__Uther narrowed his eyes at the man beside him. Gorlois was the closest thing Uther had to a friend, the last of those that helped place him upon his throne. For that, he would grant much license. However, what Gorlois said now teetered on the verge of insolence._ _

__The white markers on the map caught the corner of his eye, purely by accident they had fallen into the shape of a flower. Uther knew that, if they were anything, they were a death bloom to be placed upon the cairn of many good men. Fighting with Gorlois would not help avoid that fate. He took a long, deep breath. “As a married man, I would think you would be grateful of being told what you needed to hear, rather than being told what you needed to _do_.”_ _

__Gorlois startled. His brow rose and fell and his lips twitched. Finally, he roared in laughter. “It’s true that I’d rather ride out against a dragon than face Marjoram when I tell her I must go to war.”_ _

__“Ah, the wrath of woman,” Uther sighed._ _

__“And of a women with child, all the more.”_ _

__Uther clapped his hand to Gorlois’s shoulder. “Then I give you my leave to fight your own battle before you must fight mine.”_ _

__Gorlois bowed; it was less stiff than his usual obeisance. When he looked up, his eyes were steady and clear. “There _is_ one last thing I wish to speak to you of,” he said._ _

__Uther raised his eyebrow. “Indeed?”_ _

__“Until this point,” Gorlois said, “you have taken to yourself the banner of the Gollwyds: the horned goat. The council had thought that, to show that you are now King of Hwrlic, rather than just Lord of the Lost, your men should ride out under a new sigil.”_ _

__Uther tilted his head in surprise, a small, curious smile brought on by Gorlois’s unexpected words._ _

__“It is perhaps, though, not now appropriate...”_ _

__“Show it to me,” Uther insisted._ _

__Gorlois coughed. He slid his hand beneath his cloak and withdrew a span of silk, folded into quarters. He laid it out upon the table, over Castle Hwrlic. It was red, fluid fabric of fine weave and sewn into it, the golden head of a dragon. “It was thought that it paid honour to your name - Pendragon: the dragon’s head.” His eyes flickered down. “I know it’s not very original, and with the army we now face...” He began to withdraw the scrap, bunching it in his rough fingers._ _

__Uther stretched out his hand so that it covered Gorlois’s, preventing him from taking the cloth. Gorlois looked at him in silent astonishment. Slowly, he teased it from the other man’s grasp and opened it out before him. “No,” he said softly. “It is a sign.”_ _

__“My lord?” Gorlois asked._ _

__A slow smile spread on Uther’s face. “We ride out of our keep under the head of a dragon,” he explained, “and we will return with a dragon’s head in our keeping.”_ _

__Gorlois’s face split to join Uther’s smile. He laughed roundly. “I have said it before, Uther Pendragon: you are mad.”_ _

__“And yet you still follow me,” Uther replied with a smirk._ _

__“Into hell,” Gorlois agreed, grasping Uther’s sword-arm tightly. “Even into the mouth of a dragon.”_ _


	9. Chapter 9

Gwaine knocked on the door to Leon’s room, a small offshoot of the main barracks as provided to knight commanders such as themselves. 

“Come!”

Gwaine juggled the tray of food in his hand with his walking stick, to allow him to open the door without putting too much weight on his injured leg. It was a challenge, as so many things were these days. He had even had to learn to pre-empt the call of nature because, if he was any distance from the latrines, the process of hobbling there and the necessity to sit with every visit, made even peeing a perilous quest. 

Leon looked up from his bed. The way his face widened in a smile as he saw Gwaine in the doorway made all the awkwardness and discomfort of the visit worthwhile.

“I brought you dinner,” Gwaine said, proffering the tray of sliced meat and tomatoes as he limped towards the bed.

Leon frowned, the red line of his face-wound creasing and rippling as he did. “You should leave that to one of the men,” he scolded.

Gwaine smirked. “One of the men would steal your wine and eat your beef and leave you naught but the gravy,” he joked. With little grace he deposited the tray on Leon’s lap, noting, with only a little bit of a wry smile, that Leon had hitched himself over to one side of the bed. There were chairs in the room but this had quickly become a tradition with them, one Gwaine decided not to press upon. He groaned as he sat on the bed, swinging first his good leg onto the bed and then using his hands to lift the injured one beside it. He fluffed his pillow a little.

When he turned his head, he found Leon studying him. It was curious to see the way the other man compensated for his own disability, his well eye moving rapidly and his head bobbing where that was insufficient. “Thank you,” his fairer companion said.

“Quite alright, my friend,” Gwaine replied. He reached over and plucked a poached tomato from Leon’s plate. “Why let anyone else take what I’d have myself?”

Leon’s twisting smile and shaking head said all it needed to. Turning his attention to the meal, the ailing soldier licked his lips lightly at the hunk of fine meat that had ‘fallen’ onto Gwaine’s passing tray. Suddenly his eye caught on something clearly unexpected. It was a single white flower, of the kind Gwaine had given Percival, and, finding himself with a small surplus, had also placed under Leon’s plate. It had been an impulsive folly; with Percival his intent was simply to provoke a reaction. What he was trying to provoke in Leon was something less defined. It was a feeling; that he wanted Leon to know he was not alone nor forgotten, that - whatever else - he was cared about. He wanted to promise that it would all be okay. He watched Leon lift the bloom and examine it, fingers trailing over the long, knotted stem and to the soft, velvety petals. 

Leon held it up to his nose, overshot a little and sneezed. He grimaced. “Ow,” he said, putting the flower carefully down on his bedside table. No words passed between them, but Gwaine felt the movement on the mattress and the swell of warmth as Leon shifted just a fraction closer to him.

Eating took precedence for a few minutes, Gwaine sat contentedly with his companion, humming a little tune. Leon cut off a piece of his beef and pushed it to one side of his plate. Gwaine picked it up with his fingers and gave it a good chewing. He stole a wash of wine straight from Leon’s goblet.

“I finally managed to convince Percival to come inside,” he said casually between chomps.

Leon swallowed. “That’s good to hear.”

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Bloody fool was that tired he fell asleep in his dinner. I left him snoring his head off on the table.”

“It’s well to let him sleep,” Leon advised. “I should think he needs it from what you’ve told me.”

Gwaine nodded. “It is the finest healer.”

“No finer than the love of a friend,” Leon replied, staring intently at his plate. There was a pink glow in his cheek that Gwaine chose to attribute to the wine on Leon’s weakened system.

“Aye, well...” he said. “Might not want to impress that idea too much, he already thinks I’m trying to seduce him.”

Leon swallowed and choked; coughed, wheezed, attempted to keep the tray on his knee at the same time as holding his sides. “Sedu... seduce him,” he spluttered.

Gwaine steadied Leon, one hand to the edge of the wooden tray, the other around Leon’s shoulder. “I was only trying to cheer him up,” he soothed.

Leon sniffed, his eyes watering from the effect of wine in the windpipe. “You offer to climb into bed with everyone you try to cheer?” he rasped throatily.

Gwaine raised his eyebrows and looked very pointedly at their position.

“Ah, right; yes,” Leon said sheepishly. Gwaine’s arm was still about his shoulders and, for some reason, he felt disinclined to remove it. They settled back in that way. The breadth and solidness of Leon’s back felt good, a reassurance of life and camaraderie. The uneven rise and fall of his ribs tugged at Gwaine’s chest and reminded him how damn lucky they were to have survived when so many others did not.

“Still,” Leon continued, using one of his tomatoes to mop at the remaining gravy on his plate, “the way we are now I suppose our chances of marrying Mollith the Fair are somewhat reduced.” 

Gwaine snorted bawdily. “Speak for yourself. It’s not like I have to stand up to give Molly what she likes.”

“Aye,” agreed Leon, “But I am hardly a catch now, am I? If I ever was,” he added glumly.

“Leon, I do not often say this to someone I’m in bed with, but you are a fine man.”

Leon’s eyebrow rose. “The youngest son of a little-known noble family with a few pig farms to its name? Bent and broken in battle? Oh yes, a _fine_ catch as a husband.”

“It is not your lands or your looks that make you, Leon,” Gwaine scolded. “It is your honesty, your loyalty, your kindness and compassion.” He felt colour rising in his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment. “And anyway,” he said more lightly, “some women like a scar.”

He saw Leon worry his lip for a second; downcast eye uncertain. However, when he looked up, there was something determined in his gaze. “And some men?” he asked quietly.

A flutter in Gwaine’s heart was both surprise and pleasure. It was not a thing he would have expected of Leon and, yet, here it was. He leant in, his eyes fixed on Leon’s one; he felt the anticipatory hitch of breath from his companion. At the last second, he stole the final tomato from Leon’s plate and popped it into his mouth, chewing with great deliberation.

“That, Leon,” he said saucily, “is a very interesting question.”

****

“Ugh.” Merlin wasn’t quite sure if he said it or if the stirring figure he was tangled around. Either way, the sentiment was heartfelt. Where his and Arthur’s skin touched, the flesh was damp; though it was not with sweat. In particular, ticklish rivulets of water dripped from Arthur’s sodden fringe onto Merlin’s nose: his mystical soaking seemed to have found its way into reality along with them. Arthur tried to roll away, only to be stopped by Merlin’s gangly legs clamping his.

“You weren’t kidding,” the king said with a throaty growl. He huffed and puffed a little more, largely freeing himself in a lazy, wallowing fashion. “You can let go of my hand now,” he grumbled drowsily, still coming around.

Merlin smacked his lips. Thin dawn wreathed its way into the chamber. “Actually, I think you’re holding mine,” he observed.

From the corner of the room, there came a snort and a gargle. Merlin sat straight up, only a little hampered by the lingering proximity between him and Arthur. “Gaius?” he called.

The snorer stirred. “M... Merlin?” Gaius’s voice was tight and harried, disbelieving. “Merlin!” he said more strongly. He was at the bedside with an eager haste belying the stiffness in his gait. He pressed the back of his hand to Merlin’s brow, his other on his chest over his heart. “By the Gods,” he swore, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Lost me?” Merlin laughed. His throat was hoarse. “I was right here.”

“As you have been for the last two days,” Gaius explained. “With a trace of life so faint that another might have though you dead.”

“Two days!” exclaimed Merlin. “But all I did was walk from one end of a hallway to another.”

Arthur groaned. “And upend the contents of the west sea on me,” he added.

“Sire!” Gaius’s voice was a flood of relief. He scurried around the bed and made an examination of the king. While he did, Merlin wriggled his way from Arthur’s bed, his clothes twisted with the sheets and clingingly damp. Two days. It would certainly explain why his mouth tasted like the underside of a grass snake: green and foulsome. But it was worth it; seeing Gaius speak to Arthur and hearing Arthur’s voice beyond the confines of the dream. As Gaius bent to listen to Arthur’s heart, the king’s eyes met Merlin’s. There was something in them that had never been there before: understanding. For all their many years together, at last they knew each other. The relief of it swirled dizzyingly through Merlin and he stumbled. Putting his hand out to steady himself, he succeeded in knocking a pewter jug to the floor with a noisy clatter. Gaius looked up and what felt like a second later was holding on to him, strong hands steadying him.

“Are you alright my boy?” he said worriedly.

Merlin nodded, water pricks brimmed in his eyes although he wasn’t sure why. “I’m just... tired,” he said.

“We will get you straight to bed once I’ve finished with the king,” Gaius promised soothingly.

“Please, Gaius,” Arthur interrupted, “I’m fine. I just need some rest. You should see to Merlin.” A slight pause quivered on Arthur’s lips. “He has earned it,” he concluded softly.

****

Uther surveyed the pass of Dunnaedre by the failing, afternoon light. The steep slopes arched threateningly over the rocky ground. On the hillside, the ancient limed figure of the coiled snake stared down on them, gleaming bone-white against the grim, grey stone. Such a place was not a typical choice of a battle ground, nor was to time the encounter to the twilight. It was a fact unknown outside the training-houses of the one-day-to-be Dragonlords, that a dragon’s eyesight would be less favourable in the night than even that of a man. Uther’s past told him that the advantages of this place and time outweighed the disadvantages.

Gorlois came to stand a step behind him. “Sire,” he said softly, “the advance has funnelled the Dragonlords into this ravine. They will be here soon.”

“The losses?” Uther asked.

“Heavy. Their magic is strong.”

“The mages that march with them are not all Lords, but they are selected from the ranks of the most powerful sorcerers to act as their protectors. They are loyal to a fault.”

“As are your men to you,” Gorlois said. “They will fight and die for you.”

“They may fight and die _with_ me,” Uther said. “I will be among the vanguard.”

“Uther!” said Gorlois sharply, “you are the king now, you cannot fight at the fore.”

“I will not ask my men to do what I will not. And I know more of the enemy than any here.” Uther paused. It was on his lips to tell Gorlois his secret, when a beacon flared from the ridge.

“They’re here,” Gorlois said.

Uther drew his sword. “I do not expect you to join me on the front,” he said. “Command the bowmen, hold the line.”

Gorlois laughed. He pulled his sword from its sheath and rang it against Uther’s. “I am here with you, my friend,” he called.

The sound of marching boots and the laboured breaths of horses came to them on the wind. It grew louder. From around a bluff they appeared, fire lighting their way. Torches flickered amid the glowing orbs of conjured flame. They stopped, some distance from Uther. He felt the presence of the men behind him, the held-breath tension and the smell of sweat and fear like rusted metal. The tip of the host before them, as many as could fit in the narrow passage, stood as silent as grey shadows, their cowls pulled over their faces.

A wind crept up on them, growing to a drumbeat of wings. Overhead, against the bruise-purple sky, the giant silhouettes of dragons swirled. Sand and grit caught in the downdraught stung the skin of Uther’s cheeks. The army that coiled at his back muttered restlessly. A few broke ranks and fired arrows futilely into the air. 

“Break off!” Uther bellowed. “Hold your fire!”

One of the shapes above grew larger, descending from its lofty viewpoint. It was huge. Uther had only ever been in the presence of a dragon once before, and much of that night was lost to the intervening time. Such creatures did not deign to associate with any but the faithful; those who had pledged themselves to the Dragons, or who were bonded to them by blood. Still, part of his education had been in reverencing the beasts and he could not help but feel a small tremble of awe in his stomach. Unbidden, their names came to his mind - he had had to recite them time after time in his schooling. Six dragons for six kingdoms: Kilgharrah, Simpera, Clorosavina, Khomivo, Dubgano, Hessandra. From this distance it was impossible to tell which it was. The men around him gasped as the shape drifted lower. Suddenly, the dragon opened its mouth and flames roared towards the assembled men - Uther’s and the Dragonlord forces alike. Uther and Gorlois beside him ducked, many of those behind cowered as the fire shot towards them. The army of mages stood immovable and implacable, even as the air boiled down at them. This had always been a possibility but Uther had thought the dragons wouldn’t wish to dirty their claws so soon. Perhaps he underestimated their hatred of him.

A strange thing happened. The fire that rippled towards them was scooped up by the mountainsides, gathered into a flaming ceiling over their heads. It was a trick of geography, no doubt - the exact slope of the cliffs mixed with the convergence of the airs. To the general foot-soldier it looked like only one thing: that the sky itself was on fire. Something was protecting them from the dragon, something that could only be divine in origin. From cowed silence, voices broke: taunting, cheering voices that poured forth at the Dragonlords. The sound of horns rang out, first one and then many, building to a crescendo. “For Hwrlic!” someone shouted. “For the King!” another yelled.

Their foes waited, staffs braced.

“Now,” said Uther quietly. Only Gorlois heard and raised the cry: 

“Charge. _Charge_!”

****

Merlin knocked on the door to the king’s quarters, a tray laden with everything delicious looking that the kitchen had to offer in his other hand.

“Come in!”

Just the sound of Arthur’s voice through the wood was enough to raise a grin on Merlin’s face - that and the twelve straight hours of glorious sleep which he had just lavished in. He pushed open the door. Arthur was sat at his table, dressed only in loose cotton britches and an unlaced undershirt. He was toying with a piece of cutlery in a thoughtful fashion, digging it into the wood.

“Dinner, sire?” Merlin asked with a smirk.

Arthur’s head snapped up. “Merlin! What are you doing here?” he asked.

Merlin shrugged as he deposited the food in front of Arthur. “I’m your servant, bringing you food is just what I do.”

Arthur’s eyes flicked up to meet Merlin’s. “You’re more than my servant,” he said quietly. The intensity of his gaze made Merlin’s stomach clench.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. He looked down at the plate. Arthur followed his eyes. He licked his lips.

“It’s getting cold,” Merlin stated. 

Arthur began to eat, almost obediently. The speed with which he tucked in increased rapidly, however: ten days without a solid meal would do that to a man. Merlin moved to the bed. Someone else had been in and changed it; it had, after all, been rather damp last time Merlin saw it. He straightened the bedclothes from Arthur’s own sleep.

“Come and sit with me,” Arthur said through a hefty mouthful of bread.

“Um, just let me finish here...” Merlin excused.

“Unless something has happened while I have been asleep, I am still the King of Camelot and if I tell you to sit, you take a seat,” Arthur commanded. Merlin turned a frown on him. “Please,” Arthur added, gesturing at a chair.

Hesitantly, Merlin moved back to the table. He pulled out the chair next to Arthur and sat down.

Arthur took a flagon of wine and poured two goblets. He slid one to Merlin.

“Are we dreaming again?” asked Merlin, trying to lighten the grave look on Arthur’s face.

Arthur pointed at him with a chicken drumstick. “You have magic,” he said flatly.

“Uh, yes,” Merlin agreed. He took a gulp of his wine: if this was the point where he got hauled off to the cells, he might as well get a drink out of it.

Arthur nodded slowly. “And I have magic.” 

Merlin took an even deeper draught of the wine. “Yes,” he agreed. The room had a little swirl. He decided to stick to sipping.

“Does anybody else know?” Arthur asked.

Merlin grimaced. “About you or...”

Arthur widened his eyes at Merlin with an expression that said ‘idiot’ as much as it ever had. Merlin sucked his lower lip in and worried it. “Only Gaius,” he admitted at last. “And my mother,” he added. 

“For all of these years, you have confided in no-one else?” Arthur replied. He sounded almost impressed.

Merlin hung his head. “There have been others,” he conceded. “But they... are not in a position to reveal the secret.”

“They are dead?” Arthur said.

Faces of those gone before flashed through Merlin’s mind: Will, Freya, Lancelot, Mordred. “Most of them,” he said quietly. “Not by my hand,” he added. His voice cracked. “They were my friends. I... loved them and they took my secret with them to their graves.”

Arthur’s reached out his hand and covered Merlin’s. It felt all the more real for the echo of the dream it stirred. “I know now,” he said softly. “We both know.”

Merlin cleared his throat. He pulled his hand back and bunched it in his lap nervously. “Uh, well, my secret is not the big news here, is it?” he said with forced levity. “I’d think we’d be talking about what you’re going to do next.”

“I’m going to finish my dinner,” Arthur observed. 

Merlin looked up. “I mean about your magic,” he said. “The power you have needs to be controlled, trained.”

“I’d say I had a pretty good grasp of the basics,” Arthur replied pridefully.

“It takes years to learn magic,” chastised Merlin. “Even I had to study. For someone like you...”

“Someone like... _me_ ,” Arthur drawled.

Merlin tutted. It had actually sounded better in his head. “Latent mages that aren’t, well, _latent_ anymore can be... dangerous. If you are going to show people that magic is something not to be feared, it’s probably best not to accidentally blow anybody up.”

“I would never do that,” Arthur countered. 

“You would never _mean_ to do that,” Merlin corrected.

“I can control myself,” Arthur replied. “My life has been one long exercise in discipline.”

“Like ditching sword practise to collect mayday flowers?” Merlin asked.

Arthur pouted.

“Look,” said Merlin in a placatory voice. He got to his feet. Licking his fingers, he snuffed out the central candle on the table. “You’re a pretty special case, I admit. So, if you can control your power: light the candle.”

“I’m not interested in parlour tricks,” Arthur scoffed.

Merlin laughed. “You have no idea how many times your life has been saved by just lighting a fire. So...”

Arthur frowned. He put down his knife and focussed on the candle. He stared for a few second and then blinked, shaking himself out. He returned his attention to the candle, specifically the wick. As he stared, sweat began to bead on his forehead. Merlin watched him both with his eyes and his mind. He could feel the power inside Arthur but it was like a water bladder with a pinprick hole - only a fraction of what was there leaked out and yet what did escape was wasted.

At last, Arthur growled and broke off. “I can’t do it,” he said tightly. He took a shaky quaff from his wine goblet. He looked up at Merlin. “It was so easy before.”

“You were _dreaming_ before,” Merlin explained softly. “You knew you had magic, and so you had the kind of magic you thought you _should_ have; dangerous, powerful.”

“But in reality I can’t even light a blasted candle?”

Merlin sighed. “You summoned enough energy to light every candle in the palace,” he admitted, “but it is controlling it, focussing it where you need it, that you need help with.”

“And you’re the man to teach me?” Arthur said, more than a little sarcastically.

“Well,” said Merlin slowly, “I mean, I _could_ , I guess?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You fill me with such confidence, Merlin.”

“No, I mean I _can_ ,” Merlin assured. He wasn’t quite sure if it was Arthur or himself he was trying to convince. “I can teach you magic. But...”

“But..?”

“There’s one proviso,” Merlin said. “The law against magic. It needs to be repealed.”

“I could hardly enforce it now, could I?” Arthur replied with a sigh. “To punish someone for a birthright I share with them?”

“No,” agreed Merlin. “But nor can you simply announce that you have magic. It would tear the kingdom apart. First, you must make people see that it is not a thing to be feared; allow sorcerers and healers to come out of the shadows. This thing must be handled with the utmost care.”

Arthur nodded silently, all the while his eyes trailing over Merlin. The way he stared made the back of Merlin’s neck itch hotly. “You know,” he said finally, “over the years I have tried to decide if you are a fool who sometimes sounds wise or a wise man who sometimes sounds a like fool. I’m glad I finally know.”

“Um, thanks?” Merlin replied hesitantly.

“I just meant that you have always sought to give me sage advice and for that, I am grateful. In fact, that is what I should like you to be.”

“Annoying?” Merlin offered.

“You do that without any encouragement from me,” Arthur said. “I was actually trying to appoint you my official advisor.”

Merlin’s mouth moved for a few moments without sounds emerging. At last he gasped, “I would be honoured, Arthur.”

“Then it’s settled: you and I together can truly form this land into the place of tolerance and understanding we have longed for. Albion shall rise, and lead the people into a glorious future!” Arthur raised his goblet in salute.

Merlin took his own drink in a hand that was only a little shaky and sweat-drenched. He raised it and knocked it against Arthur’s. “I am with you, my friend,” he swore. He saw the slow smile that spread across Arthur’s face, brightening his eyes until they looked like jewels in the flickering light of the remaining candles. His vision blurred a little as he lowered his gaze to his goblet and drank. 

He and Arthur, together, would build Albion, as Kilgharrah had always said.

Magic would be restored and the wounds of the land healed.

At least one of the prophesies was, at last, coming true.


	10. Chapter 10

The sweep of Uther’s sword cut through the belly of the mage that was flanking him, spilling the man’s blood onto the already sodden ground. He did not have time even to scream before he was gone. The battle was a mad thing, a maelstrom of arms and magic; where steel glinted in the unnatural glow of enchanted lightning and arrows burst asunder in the air as if hitting great invisible walls. So much bloodshed, so much death. All this to avenge a crime that had not yet been committed; nothing more malicious than being born. He knew some of the faces he had seen cut down - on both sides: sons of lords and acolytes he had been schooled with to Gollwyds that he had lived and fought beside against the Westernmen. If anything kept his will firm, it was the utter injustice of it all. These sorcerers did not know what they fought for, and yet they served with absolute dedication. The irony that his own army did no less was not lost on him. 

Uther whirled to the sound of the crackle of enchantment behind him. His sword severed the wooden staff of his attacker. He righted himself to take the fatal blow, but his strength suddenly failed him.

Frozen, “You,” he hissed.

Torn and bloodied before him stood Ulfred, the man he had long since ceased to think of as his father.

“By the Gods, it _is_ you,” Ulfred gasped. He took a faltering step towards Uther. Uther barred his advance with his blade. “My son.” Even above the roar of the battle, Uther heard the tears in the other man’s voice.

“Don’t call me that,” Uther snapped. 

Somehow, Ulfred was inside his guard, clasping his shaking arms tightly. “I am sorry, Uther,” Ulfred swore. “I am so sorry it has come to this.” The space between them closed, an aura of shimmering blue energy isolating them. They were the calm centre of the storm and as death and destruction raged around them, Ulfred held his son. “If I had known...”

Uther felt the bitter sting of regret in his eyes. He released himself with a rough shrug.

“My boy,” Ulfred said, studying him, “Gods, how have you changed. You’re a man. A warrior. A _King_.”

“A King,” Uther agreed. “A boy alone in the world has to do much to survive.”

Ulfred shook his head. “It is more than that,” he said. “People trust you, do they not? They do what you ask of them without question.”

“I _am_ their ruler,” Uther said.

“You are not just a leader of men,” Ulfred insisted. “The ceremony took your magic and it severed the ability to command the dragons, but it _cannot_ erase what is in your blood. Our family history extends back before the dragons: it was a Pen-y-ddraig who called the first in to being.”

“Then our ancestors were fools,” Uther spat.

Ulfred shook his head. “In the time of the Gathering, the dragons were man’s only hope of survival. They were a gift from the Gods.”

“And now?” Uther said.

“Now their time is at an end, and they know it. They fight the coming night with tooth and claw, but their fate is unavoidable, as it is they who made it.” 

“You told me they thought I was to end them,” Uther stated flatly. “I cannot do that without the power to control them.”

“You are wrong,” Ulfred said. “You may never be a Dragonlord, but you are a _Pen-y-ddraig_. Our line needed no bond to call the dragons into life, so too can its descendants take that life, bonded or no.” He took Uther’s cheek in his hand. “There is just one thing standing in your way.”

Uther studied his face, it was lined and ancient. For a man barely in his fiftieth year, he looked like an ancient. “What?” Uther replied, his voice thick.

“Me,” Ulfred whispered.

Uther’s eyes narrowed. He suddenly became aware of how in Ulfred’s mercy he was, separated from his forces by his enemy’s magic. 

Ulfred stepped closer again. “There is only one way for this to end,” he said. A flash of steel drawn from Ulfred’s waistband set Uther to his guard. He jumped back, his hand to his sword.

“You seek to right your mistake in letting me live,” he growled.

Tears flowed freely from Ulfred’s eyes. “My son, there is nothing I could ever do to right the wrong I did to you. But I can give you something, one last thing.”

He turned the knife inwards on himself, pressing it to his chest. Uther stared in silent horror.

“After my death,” Ulfred continued, “you will inherit the Pen-y-ddraig’s birthright. You may not be able to command a dragon, but you will be able to _kill_ one.”

Ulfred’s hands were trembling. Uther stepped closer to him, eyes fixed on the dagger. “No,” he said. “Don’t.” A sob caught his throat. “ _Please_ ”.

“Help me,” Ulfred whispered.

Uther’s hands were on the knife without him willing it, bound around Ulfred’s whitened knuckles. The older man closed his eyes.

“I will always love you,” he said, drawing their hands in. The blade sank home with an eager slide. Uther felt the spill of life bloom around their linked fingers, the last ragged breaths shudder from the other man’s chest, and then; nothing.

**** 

“What is happening?” Clorosavina whined, fluttering her delicate, pale blue wings in annoyance. Night was upon them and the dragons could not see from their perch atop the pass of Dunnaedre. Flashes of light and sparks of crashing steel flew up to them, but only the haziest blur of grey figures could be discerned by their weak light.

“ _King_ Uther has chosen this site well,” Kilgharrah muttered.

“Stop deluding yourself, Kilgharrah,” Khomivo snapped. “This is no King, it is Uther Pen-y-ddraig. Just because you allow your feelings for these weakling men to cloud your judgement, do not expect us to do the same.”

“You will be silent!” Kilgharrah demanded. “I am still your leader.”

Khomivo snorted in disgust, flame and steam circling from his nostrils. “For now,” he rumbled.

Amid the flare of enchantment, a brighter light appeared - the dome of a shield spell covering not one but _two_ figures silhouetted against the glow.

“What is that?” demanded Clorosavina.

“Damn it, Savi, will you shut up!” Khomivo roared. “ _None_ of us can see what is going on down there!”

“Just because you and I were once mates does not give you the right to speak to me that way,” Clorosavina retorted. “You were exactly like this when we were together, all mouth and no...”

Khomivo growled, he flapped his wings and rose into the air. “I would rather fly into the ravine than sit here listening to her whinging at me.”

“You cannot land in the pass,” Kilgharrah stated. “Any clearing large enough to accept you will be swarming with Uther’s men.”

“Then I will put them to the flame!”

“You would burn as many of our allies with that cursed breath of yours!” Clorosavina shouted to him.

“She speaks truth, Khomivo,” Kilgharrah said. “If you go down there, you risk all of us. If the Lords should fail, our enemy would turn on us next.”

Khomivo laughed. “Let him try!” he said. “Their pitiful weapons cannot hurt us. We are creatures of magic - steel holds no fear for us.” He soared upwards before creasing his wings back in a dive. “I will stamp them into the rocks with my bare claws!” he howled as he sped away from the other dragons.

~~~~

The sickening crunch and howling screams of the puny humans Khomivo landed on roused a laugh from the huge dragon. He rained fire on those stupid beings foolish enough to launch spears and arrows at him. One particularly idiotic swordsman tried to slash at the dragon’s flank; Khomivo swatted him, feeling the man shatter with the blow. He sent a long stream of fire scorching a channel between where he landed and the glowing sphere he had seen from above. Bodies fell charred and blackened to each side. The fire did not reach the protective spell but the glowing boundaries flickered and faltered. The shield fell, as did one of the men inside, crumbling to the ground with a convulsive jerk. The second man dropped beside him, bowing over the body, cradling it in his arms. It seemed as if he bent and kissed it before laying the figure tenderly to the ground. 

Khomivo would never understand these blasted vermin.

Slowly, the remaining man stood, lifting himself with the aid of his sword in the ground as though an elder, stooped with fatigue. His eyes lifted to meet Khomivo’s. They burned: not with enchantment but with something far older; a wrath beyond time.

“Nothos al drakon!” the man roared. It was a language that spoke only to the dragon, and only one of the kin could know it. But he bore a sword, not a staff, nor could Khomivo sense the aura of magic emanating from him.

The man began to walk towards Khomivo, his sword hacking aside any who came before him, gathering pace with every step. Finally, Khomivo could see the man’s face - it was twisted with a snarl but it was undoubtedly that of a Pen-y-ddraig. Khomivo had known three generation of them before the boy called Uther was born: Emeric, Eddard, Ulfred. It was as if the spirit of all three stormed towards him, Emeric’s height, Eddard’s breadth and the face of the current, and final, Pen-y-ddrag. It could only be Uther, the ill-begotten whelp of a once-fine man and some low-born serving girl that had only the grace to die when the child was little more than a hatchling. Or nurseling. Whatever disgusting method of procreation such inferior beasts chose.

Uther’s trot broke into a run, failing even to acknowledging the blows that tried to bar his way. He stooped, without faltering in his step, to tear up a kite-shaped shield from a fallen ally. He brandished it before him as he leapt over the heaps of strewn and mangled bodies that marred the path. Khomivo sent a lick of fire to great him, born on the winds of a great, degrading laugh. It broke on the shield, leaving the metal scorched.

“Little man, you would seek to pin me with your tiny weapon?” he chided. “Ah, such spirit. Such useless bloody spirit.”

Uther roared senselessly at him, no longer in the language of man or dragon. He truly seemed determined on taking Khomivo on face to face, bearing down so that he was within hacking distance of the much grander creature.

Khomivo lifted a huge clawed foot with every intention of stomping Uther into oblivion. Uther met it with his blade, sparks flying from the stone-hard horn. The dragon parried the blow easily, casting Uther back onto his rear.

“Have you forgotten all that we taught you, young Pen-y-ddraig?” Khomivo gloated, staring down at the man. He was sporting a repulsive tufting of hair about his chin and cheek, in that way that the barbarian tribesmen of these lands were so fond. Even still, there was something about Uther that set him above the other unwashed savages around him. 

“That name no longer belongs to me!” Uther bellowed in return.

Khomivo chuckled. “And here was me thinking that here was one _finally_ worthy of such a title.”

Uther threw himself forward, churning up mud and stones with his determined lunge. It was as if he was equally happy to use his sword or his bare hands in his vehemence. Khomivo swatted off each advance like an irritating fly.

“You know that this is pointless,” Khomivo said. Some of the warriors had seen their liege lord’s attempts at battling the beast and had rallied to him. Their pitiful attempts at warring did not even break the dragon’s thick hide, mere gnat’s stings. “You cannot hurt me. Do you remember nothing of what we taught you: only a Dragonlord could ever take a dragon’s life, and you are not that.”

“No,” agreed Uther breathlessly, his exertions were tiring him, sweat caked the dust on his brow. “But I _am_ the son of one!”

Khomivo snorted. Fire engulfed several of Uthur’s men, setting them to cinders before they could even cry out. “And what worth is that to you?” he roared. “Stripped of magic and the bond. You are a child, an _infant_. What hope could you possibly have against _us_?”

“Come closer and I will tell you,” Uther challenged. 

Khomivo laughed so loudly that the sound rolled off the steep cliffs like thunder. He stepped forward, ignoring the tiny bites of arrows and swords, coming to within mere inches of Uther. The man smelled like rank sweat; gored and bespattered with all kinds of filth. “So tell me,” he demanded, brazenly baring his chest to Uther.

A terrible grim smile crept across Uther’s face, the semblance of some fearful death mask. “Ulfred is dead,” he said, and with it, plunged his sword into the dragon’s heart.

Khomivo staggered. His eyes widened to amber orbs as he felt his life-blood drain from him. “How?” he gasped, his front legs buckling.

A great roar erupted; the Army of Hwrlic taking to voice as their enemy crashed to the ground. All around, the remaining mages stared in horror; some being sliced down as they stood agape, the rest raising wails of anguish and despair.

With his final gasps of breath Khomivo summoned a roar that drowned them all out, his muzzle stretched skywards as if in appeal to the heavens. “Clorosavina!” he bellowed. “Fly, my love!” His eyes darkened and his neck sagged, his whole body followed and he collapsed to one side. Life left him with a howl, a great gust of the magic which filled him escaping beyond the veil. Uther mounted the deceased dragon’s side victoriously.

“The dragon is dead,” his men chanted. “Long live King Uther!”

From amongst them, Gorlois’s deep, oaken voice rang out. “Pendragon! Pendragon!”

Uther held his sword high, the steel glinting in the moonlight. He would give them what they asked for. With a single, swift slice he severed the dragon’s head from its body. Blood gushed from the beast’s neck like a crimson flood, mingling with all that already spilled in his name; friend, foe and family alike. Those left standing cried out as one, a single, triumphant shout that shook Uther’s bones. He had killed one of the Six. He had fought magic and he had _won_.

“Thank you, father,” he whispered.

~~~~

The grey dawn flitted across the pass of Dunnaedre. Scarecrow corpses littered the field, broken bodies like the discarded toys of some careless giant. Uther picked his way between them. Already, birds and crawling things had begun their work on the fallen; ragged torn flesh and empty eye sockets the marks of their works.

It was not hard for Uther to find the empty shell of his father’s body. The headless dragon nearby gave the location somewhat away. Retracing his steps, the line of burned earth that led from the fallen adversary found him his prize. Ulfred lay as if in state, as perfect as any prince. His eyes were closed and a smile was on his face. By a trick of fate, his robes had been entirely stained by his blood so that the white linen was turned scarlet. It matched Uther’s own cape.

Gathering his father tenderly in his arms, Uther made a slow and perilous ascent up the steep hillside. There was no path to guide his way and small stones always threatened to spill them. Uther’s shoulder throbbed with the effort; it was still not as strong as it had been before Aegan pinned him and the battle had taken its toll on his strength. As he stepped over the exposed chalk of the outline of the coiled snake, entering the circle it formed, he shivered. The Gollwyds were right - this was a magical place. Even Uther could feel it. It was the perfect place to lay Ulfred in his final rest. He did not deserve to be carrion, nor to rot among the slain as if he was but their equal. In the very centre, Uther left Ulfred as he went to gather rocks. It took nearly an hour to raise the cairn pile over him. Below, in the ravine, the camp was stirring. It was almost time to return to them, to issue his orders as the King. 

“One day,” he whispered to his father’s grave, “I will have a family of my own, and it will not take my death for them to know that I love them. That is the true gift you have given me.” He laid his hand upon the topmost stone briefly and then turned and walked away.

****

The gleaming, white towers of Camelot rose like arrows shooting heavenwards. They were a sight that brought gasps to many of the army, having only ever seen the squat, solid turrets of Hwrlic, stone hewn roughly by the sea and storms and just as grey. They came on it at sunset of the fourth day after the battle of Dunnaedre. At least Gorlois had had the decency not to say ‘I told you so’, for Uther’s orders had been that they bind the severed head of the dragon to an emptied supply cart and march on the very heart of the six kingdoms. But with the dragons fled and the Dragonlords defeated, Camelot was weak. Old Cornaelius would have no recourse but to acquiesce to Uther’s demands. First, he would hand over Ygraine. Next, Hwrlic would be granted some of the rich valley lands east of Acestir and that would be given to the Gollwyds. The salt marshes and stony soils of the western plains by the sea could barely support their numbers, never mind give them safety and security; a place to finally call home. Finally, Uther would insist that the sect of the Dragonlords be dissolved. Without the dragons they were pledged to serve, they had no point and no place within the kingdoms. They would be treated as any other mage and be above no man.

It all sounded so very simple, and yet as the great walls of the castle marched towards them with every passing minute, as fearsome as the teeth of some huge leviathan rising from a lush, green sea, Uther grew nervous. Coming at this time, on a fair evening of the harvest moon, the setting sun stained the tips of the turrets and battlements red; it was not a good portent. He had never thought to see this place again - he’d never wished to - but returning as an invader stirred memories Uther thought long forgotten. Faces of that former life came back to him; Balaenor, his childhood friend; the girl he had been fond of, in his boyish way, the sorceress Nimueh. Friends and family, old tutors, members of the guard who had been kind to him over the years, letting him sneak into places Dragonlords were forbidden to see. The old women in the market who used to give all the youngsters - peasant or noble - little sweets. Annie. He wondered if she still lived; if any of them still lived. Balaenor and Nimueh, being of equal age to Uther, could both easily be lying dead in the pass of Dunnaedre. He might even have taken their lives himself.

Gorlois rode up beside him, drawing his horse level and matching pace. “I have heard stories of Camelot, but I never thought to see it myself.”

“It was built by Oswald the Great at the end of the Gathering,” Uther recited, still lost in a time long passed.

“A scholar of history as well as the dragons?” Gorlois asked with a laugh.

Uther shook his head to clear it. “What?” he said.

Gorlois smiled toothily at him. “Nothing, my old friend,” he said. “I was simply saying how beautiful the castle is now we see it close up.”

Uther reigned his horse to a sudden stop. He stared at the walls and steeples, the smoking chimneys of lower town, the drawbridge leading in to the marketplace and all the merchants crossing over it bringing goods to the town. He frowned. Merchants? The Hwrlic army was large enough and _close_ enough to be seen with ease from the battlements, never mind the advanced scouts that any sensible lord would have on patrol. Camelot _must_ know that they are coming. But then why would the drawbridge be down, why wouldn’t there be lines of archers firing clouds of arrows into the sky?

“It’s a trap,” Uther said aloud.

Gorlois had ridden a little ahead. He turned against the flow of the march. “What is?” he said.

“How else would we have made it this far without opposition? It is like they are welcoming us with open arms.”

“Perhaps they are,” Gorlois suggested.

Uther snorted. “We shall soon see.”

~~~~

The townsfolk cheered. They threw flowers in the path of the Hwrlic procession and the tramp of many a dusty boot and shoed hoof sent the smells of lavender and jasmine into the air.

“Does it strike you as suspicious that no-one has mentioned the bloody great dragon’s head we’ve got with us?” Gorlois said.

Uther growled. “Nothing makes sense,” he said mirthlessly. 

They rode unchallenged through the lower and upper town until they reached the square in front of the castle. A bearded man in the robes of a seneschal hurried to meet them. Uther dismounted his horse, drawing his sword in preparation. Gorlois stepped up to his side.

“King Uther of Hwrlic,” the seneschal gabbled breathlessly, still descending the many stairs from the castle proper. “I am Geoffrey, steward to the Court of Camelot. We have had news of your arrival and we are very glad to see you.” He held his arms wide in welcome, faltering only a tiny bit as he glanced at the marble-eyed dragon’s head in their wake.

Gorlois stifled a laugh. Uther elbowed his counterpart firmly in the ribs. “Where is King Cornaelius?” he asked imperiously. “Should he not be here to greet us himself?”

The ruddy-faced chamberlain skittered to a halt. “King Cornaelius is dead,” he said with brusque surprise. “But you know that.”

“Cornaelius is _dead_?” Uther gaped. “How?”

The seneschal’s cheeks flushed embarrassedly. “He... took his life, when it became clear that the dragons had abandoned us. He fell upon his blade.”

Gorlois snorted. “Bloody Roman stock,” he spat.

The seneschal scowled at him but ignored the statement. “Without an heir, the kingdom was in great peril. The late king’s advisor said that he knew who of a man who would ensure safety and security for the Camelot. In fact, he was very confident that you were the one we needed and would soon have a familial claim to the throne in any instance, through the du Bois line.”

Uther grasped the rambling man by the arms and held his eyes fast. “ _Who_ is the advisor?” he demanded.

The seneschal blinked. He looked like a young doe staring down the bolt from a crossbow. “Agravaine du Bois,” he blurted, unable to tear his gaze from Uther’s. “Exiled prince of Hwrlic and brother of Ygraine. It was she who spoke so highly of you to him.”

Uther shook the seneschal a little less gently than he probably should have. “Ygraine is _here_?!” 

“She is in the great hall, awaiting your arrival,” the seneschal advised timidly.

Uther shoved him to one side and bolted up the stairs. He had been in the palace once or twice in his youth for ceremonies and he found his way to the hall without seeing the space in between. He threw open the doors before the heralds could announce him.

“Ygraine!” he called, casting about for her.

She stepped from behind a cluster of knights. It was like a winter sunrise, the daylight leaping into the void and filling it with life. She was even more beautiful than Uther remembered: delicate, graceful, almost birdlike in her quick movements. Any hesitance stopped in her actions, however. Her eyes met Uther’s across the hall and their brilliant, soul-devouring blue screamed to him with fierce desire. She stepped forward, her hand lifting; fingers reaching out to him. Uther’s feet carried him towards her. Suddenly a figure interposed itself between them. A young man, likely a few years younger even than Uther himself. The man barred his arm against Ygraine’s flight.

“My King, Uther Pendragon,” the man said. His voice made the short hairs on the back of Uther’s neck rise. It was the same voice that both the Bastard and Berrin had spoken with.

“You are Agravaine du Bois,” Uther said, holding his place.

Agravaine gave a curt bow. “Sire,” he said. Despite sharing a voice with his brothers, he was as different to them as they were to each other. Shorter than Berrin, broader than the Bastard. His jet black hair gave him an almost Moorish aspect, his tanned arm standing darkly against his sister’s posy-white skin. Old King Belthin certainly seemed to have produced a _variety_ in his offspring. “I am pleased to welcome you in friendship, and to offer you the throne of Camelot.”

“On what authority do you make this offer?” Uther challenged.

Agravaine shrugged. “Cornaelius was my father’s sister’s husband’s uncle,” he said.

“Then why do you not claim the Kingdom as your own?” The assemblage cleared its many throats noisily. 

Agravaine stepped boldly forward, coming to stop before Uther. Over his shoulder, Uther could see Ygraine smile encouragingly at him. Pitching his voice only for the two of them, Agravaine spoke, “I am the youngest son of four children. I do not wish to claim a kingdom I will be unable to hold. All I wish is to serve.” He smiled crookedly. “And to be _remembered_.”

Uther gripped Agravaine’s forearm urgently. “You?” he hissed. “ _You_ were the informant?”

Agravaine bowed again, but not low enough to disguise his prideful smile. “And now I can reaffirm my pledge to your majesty in person.”

“Is it not the same pledge you gave to the Bastard?” Uther challenged.

“Never!” swore Agravaine. “I was barely in my tenth year when I was told that my family had been slain. I thought that only myself and my brother Tristan survived. But years after, a bard came to court telling tales of a King in the west who had married his _sister_...” Agravaine shivered. “Somehow I knew that it was Ygraine. It is true that the crows I sent fed insignificant pieces of information, but they also carried secret messages for my sister; they were the link to those I had thought forever lost.”

“It’s true, Uther,” Ygraine said. She finally broke from her demure standpoint to rush into his arms. To hold her, to _feel_ her body next to his, made Uther’s head reel. She steadied him, a worried frown pursing her brow. “Agravaine’s notes helped keep me sane for the years before you came to me.”

Uther swallowed. His heartbeat was loud and fast in his ears. “Why didn’t you tell _me_ who you are, or just give me word of Ygraine?”

“It wasn’t safe, my love,” Ygraine said in Agravaine’s place. She stretched out her hand and her sibling’s, drawing them all in together. “Agravaine was simply protecting me. Us.”

Agravaine smiled at his sister and then at Uther. “I believe she is as precious to you as she is to me,” he added. 

“Thank you, Agravaine,” he said, a small waver in his voice.

“Please, call me ‘brother’,” Agravaine replied with a sickly smile. “For I doubt it will be long until we are kin.” He pulled Uther into an embrace which brushed his lips against the shell of Uther’s ear. “The court need not know that you already claim my sister’s honour,” he whispered urgently. “The King of Camelot must always appear virtuous to those he rules.”

Uther blinked as he stood back. Gorlois, who had made his way finally to the audience chamber, cocked his head at the unexpected sight of a stranger holding his friend. “Your faith and discretion will not soon be forgotten, Agravaine,” Uther rasped.

Unaware of what passed between them, Ygraine beamed up at Uther, the press of her lean body soft and hard in equal measure. She kissed his cheek. “I will make the arrangements as soon as it pleases my Lord,” she said, a flash of wicked mirth in her eyes. He smile softened, her eyes gaze dropping nervously. “If you still want me, that is.”

Uther held her tightly. “I want you,” he whispered. He stumbled and she caught him. 

Gorlois hurried to him, putting his hand to Uther’s brow. “You are burning, Uther,” he said worriedly. “Come, sit.” He led Uther down the length of the hall, seating him on an ornately carved wooden chair.

“My Lord.” A man in his middle age stepped forward. He wore the robes of a sorcerer and carried a large herb pouch on his belt. His face was comely and kind and his shoulder-length hair was straw-blond and poker straight. “Perhaps I can help. I served as physician to his majesty Cornaelius.”

“Step forward, healer,” Gorlois said, beckoning him.

“Not... a mage,” Uther gasped.

“I am a physician first,” the healer assured. “I only use magic to augment the application of science.” He felt the heat of Uther’s cheek and frowned. “Is there pain, Sire?” he asked.

Uther placed his hand weakly to his chest. “Here,” he said.

“Your heart?” the healer asked.

“Yes,” said Uther. “Well, no. My shoulder...”

“He was injured some time ago,” Gorlois provided, “but it was treated.”

The physician loosened Uther’s armour. Beneath the mail, a sticky slick of blood had pooled and clotted. “The wound must have reopened,” he said with a tut. “It will need to be drained and sown. For now...” he rummaged in his pouch, withdrawing a glass vial, “take this. It will help ease the pain.” He held the vial to Uther’s lips. 

Uther hesitated for a moment before accepting the potion. He felt its effect immediately, a cooling balm through his veins. The pain that had crept up on him by tolerable increments abated. He felt its sudden absence more than its presence.

“How do you feel?” the physician asked.

Uther nodded. “Better. What is your name?”

The physician startled, as if no-one had ever asked that of him before. “It is Gaius, my Lord.”

The blusterous seneschal barged forward. “King Uther, I must insist upon an answer to Lord Agravaine’s question. Have you not seen where you sit?”

Uther glanced about. The wooden chair was in fact one of only two in the room, placed side by side on a slight rise above the main hall. Whether it was the injury or its remedy, Uther was still feeling a little light-headed.

“You have taken to the throne of Camelot!” the seneschal provided exasperatedly. “Do you accept the honour and responsibility of being her sovereign, then?”

Uther blinked. He ran his hands over the scrolled arms of the throne, feeling the age-worn wood that King Oswald the Great himself perhaps once grasped. “King of Camelot,” he whispered. More loudly, he confirmed: “I accept.” 

He squeezed Ygraine’s hand - it had never left his. “Come my love,” he said, “sit with me.” She curtsied elegantly before taking the equal seat by his side. As she did, Agravaine’s voice rang through the hall, others joining the joyous call until it formed a single, rolling chant. 

“Hail, Uther Pendragon and the Lady Ygraine! King and Queen of Camelot!”

**EPILOGUE**

Gaius closed the book; the candle flickered low and spilled rivulets of wax upon his table. It was late, perhaps four or five hours since Merlin insisted on taking Arthur his supper.

As if in summons, the younger man appeared in the doorway, a delighted if weary grin stretched like a lazy cat across his all-too-often worried features. He was tiptoeing and seemed not to notice Gaius until the physician cleared his throat.

“Oh!” he cried, a little more loudly than was typical. “You’re still up.”

“Have you been _drinking_ Merlin?” Gaius challenged.

“Jus’ a little wine with Arthur,” he slurred.

Gaius raised an eyebrow. “You and Arthur were sharing wine?”

Merlin shrugged. “I’m his _advisor_ now. I guess advisors get wine.” He flopped onto the bench beside Gaius before Gaius could respond. “You done with that?” he said, nodding at the Pendragon family history.

“I’ve learned how Uther came from exile to King of Camelot,” Gaius agreed.

Merlin walked his fingers towards the gold-embossed binding. “Well then, I wouldn’t mind a look...”

Gaius cast the leather wrap over the book. “I did not say I had finished with it,” he chastised.

Merlin frowned. “But you _know_ what happened next - you were there. Uther used his position to suppress those who wielded magic, until it served his purposes in fathering an heir. When that went wrong, he instigated the Great Purge in revenge, generally acted like a bastard, raised a son who _somehow_ didn’t turn out a complete clotpole and a daughter who tried to kill us all, and then he shuffled off.”

Gaius shook his head. “Sometimes the tales we think we know are only one side of a coin.” He patted the shrouded tome thoughtfully. “There is much about Uther Pendragon I still wish to know.”

Merlin sighed and laid his head on the table. “Alright,” he muttered through the wood. “But don’t tell Arthur what I said.”

“Of Uther being a bastard?” Gaius asked.

“Of Arthur not being a complete clotpole,” Merlin said in return.

**Author's Note:**

> So, there we go. I _do_ have 7/10 chapters of part 2 but if I post that up, it will leave it all up on an even _bigger_ cliff-hanger. But, you know, if you want it... drop me a comment. If there's interest, i'll post.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
